


Give Pearls Away and Rubies

by Kate_Lear



Series: Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 20:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 67,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14723330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: Morse returns to Oxford after four months away.(Set around the events of series 2)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to fengirl88 for advice on poetry, discussions on plot, characterisations, backstory, etc, and heaps of support and encouragement that kept me going (even when enthusiasm was waning!).
> 
> (My dear Fen - if you had a pound for every occasion you had to listen to me mention (i.e., whinge about) this fic over the past months, I daresay you could get merrily inebriated every night for a month, with enough left over to sustain even Morse's drinking habit...)
> 
> Finally - as always - please do let me know of any typos, inconsistencies, or egregious factual errors...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set around the events of Trove

The apple tree was gnarled, its boughs twisted with age. It ought to have come down years ago, but in spring it was a mass of pink and white, and the fruit it produced was deliciously tart and sweet. It wasn’t the only reason DeBryn had bought the house, but it had certainly helped to sway his decision; when he had arrived to view the place he had stood beneath its leafy boughs, looking out over the neglected garden and the house in such desperate need of redecorating, and thought he would like to be the sort of person who had an apple tree in his garden.

He looked out at it now from his bathroom window. The garden was a myopic blur, thanks to his glasses perched on the bathroom windowsill rather than his nose, but clearer focus would hardly improve the view, given what an unholy mess it was. When he had first moved into the house he had had quite enough to do simply to modernise it; the garden had been left to shift for itself. But – he carefully brushed shaving foam onto his jaw and cheeks – now that the house was at last in a decent state, perhaps he should make the garden this summer’s project.

The bathroom window was open wide, letting the scent and sounds of spring pour into the room, and DeBryn squinted at his reflection and picked up his razor.

The back of the house faced south-west. That sheltered patch at the top of the garden would make a perfect vegetable plot, and he could pull down the frame of the old greenhouse, half of its panes broken, and put a new one in its place.

Outside a blackbird sang, its rippling notes flowing effortlessly. A perfect May morning for the parade. Not that he expected to see any of it, hidden away in the depths of Cowley General’s mortuary, but from what he overheard in the staff canteen the nurses had been talking of little else for weeks. It sounded quite the event.

DeBryn drew a careful line down his cheek, and swished the razor briefly through the basin of water.

A good day to finish the report for the Stanley case, and dispatch the quarterly figures to the Home Office HQ. Late this time – they had been due at the end of April – but what could one do when the days went by so quickly. Of course, that was presuming he didn’t get a call-out. Large event, excited crowd...what sort of person did it make him that where others saw a pleasant day out he saw only potential for misadventure. Save that, if he were called out, there was always the chance DeBryn might see him.

A flash of orange up by the old greenhouse caught his eye and he frowned. Next door’s cat again. It had been roaming more and more frequently, couldn’t they keep the thing in their own garden?

He lifted his chin to scrape the bristles from the underside of his jaw. 

A flower bed halfway up the garden, and irises in that bottom corner that always seemed soggy, no matter how long since the last rainstorm. Perhaps a herb patch by the kitchen door.

‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance,’ he murmured, rinsing the razor clean once again. That performance of _Hamlet_ on Saturday had been really rather good, Hamlet himself raving and lucid by turns. So riveting that DeBryn had quite forgotten he was watching a play and not in the court of Denmark.

DeBryn tidied up a few missed spots before reaching for the towel, wiping his face and checking the result in the mirror. Not bad. If the silver hairs at his temple hadn’t disappeared, they at least showed no sign of multiplying, and if he was a little rounder around the middle than he had been in January then that would soon change once he started the garden renovation.

His gaze slid towards the garden again, to where the cat was creeping along the fence. ‘There’s pansies, that’s for thoughts. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.’

Four months, Jakes had said.

Three weeks after the Coke-Norris shooting, when DeBryn had still seen no sign of Morse, he had dropped by the station on a pretext that was tenuous at best, not that anyone had seemed to notice. He asked about Morse’s conspicuously neat and empty desk with all the casual boredom he could feign, and at Jakes’ response he had very nearly lost his self-possession enough to let his dismay show. Four months of light duties... a mind of Morse’s calibre would be bored to death after four hours. And at Witney, too. DeBryn had had the misfortune to be called out there once or twice; it was a grey, forbidding building, more suited to a prison than a police station. And the same could be said of some of the characters who worked there.

He had gone home that evening and, over a glass of Scotch, started a letter to Morse, about the irresponsibility of not ensuring a serious wound received prompt treatment, and offering his sympathy at the fellow’s bereavement. But his words had been clumsy, his tone veering between castigating and maudlin, and he had crumpled it up; letter after letter, he started and tore up a dozen attempts before going to bed when his wastepaper basket began to overflow and the level of Scotch in the bottle to dip alarmingly low.

And it had been four months with no word from Morse, not even the courtesy of a phone call let alone an invitation for a drink or a concert. Witney wasn’t Cowley Road but it wasn’t Land’s End; let it not be said DeBryn didn’t know how to take a hint, and it was this, more than his own ineloquence, that finally put a stop to DeBryn’s efforts at letter composition.

His pride had been wounded at being dropped, of course, but it settled swiftly into resignation. They had already established, back in November, that their arrangement had been purely functional in nature. He had no reason to expect sustained contact, not from a fellow he had been to bed with a mere handful of times.

DeBryn twitched himself firmly out of that train of thought. It was a beautiful day, and there was nothing to be gained from chewing over old worries.

He glanced out at the garden once more, ragged but peaceful in the early morning light, as he swung the window closed. No further sign of the wretched cat, thank goodness. Yes, a quiet day to catch up with his paperwork would be just the thing.

Or so he thought, until he received the call from OCP requesting his presence on St John’s Lane.

\----------

The corpus was on the roof of a car. Rather neatly so, in fact, almost as though the victim had planned it, and DeBryn debated the possibilities before making for the roof of the Rates Office, the most likely jumping point within reasonable distance that would have let the chap land where he did.

A pair of spectacles discarded on the rooftop confirmed his suspicions, and DeBryn noted their position and continued to pace the area carefully. A note would be helpful. There hadn’t been one on the body; it may have fallen out of his pocket on the rooftop, but his search turned up nothing. Perhaps, given his age and demographic, it had been too much to hope for, and DeBryn turned for a last look over the railing when distant footsteps scuffed against gravel, drawing closer.

He held his position, shoulders tight with the temptation to look around.

It may not be him. True, it had been four months by now, but that was no guarantee he would have seen the police surgeon and been cleared for active duty, and DeBryn lifted his gaze to the horizon and the little fleecy clouds scudding across the perfect blue sky. Really, one could see for miles up here. The rest of the world was distant and somehow unimportant below, the noise of the crowd at the parade dimmed to a faint roar on the edge of hearing, and the police and coroner’s men scuttling around the scene like ants. He drew a deep breath, his stomach fluttering with nerves, and rubbed his fingertips along the chipped paint.

A flick of grey coattails at the corner of his eye, and DeBryn finally glanced over to see Morse peering mistrustfully over the edge, as though expecting the solid railing to vanish like morning mist. He could hardly be blamed, after his memorable trip to the roof of Alfredus College. DeBryn had only heard about it long after the fact: gossip took some time to find its way to the morgue, but it got there eventually.

Another one to add to the necrophobia, then.

‘Off heights, are we?’

‘Lately, funnily enough.’

At Morse’s dry tone DeBryn smiled faintly. Four months hadn’t dulled his recollection of its timbre, the softly blunted edges of the northern accent of someone who was conscious of it, and he gave a last glance over the edge, not wishing to look too eager, before turning to Morse.

‘Not how I’d my own quietus make, but he wouldn’t have known much about it.’ Morse’s hair had grown longer. A lock fell across his forehead and the rest had begun to curl at the ends, with the sun burnishing it to bronze. ‘Instantaneous. Dead before his mind had a chance to catch up with the rest of him.’

Morse crouched down to pick up the glasses. ‘What do you make to these?’

‘Commonly removed in suicides. Automatic gesture.’ Morse was far too serious, and DeBryn tried to raise a smile. ‘And of course, the added benefit in this instance is that he wouldn't have seen what was coming towards him.’

‘Cause?’

‘Something of a salmagundi.’ Such a pleasure to exchange with an officer who didn’t scowl when he lapsed into bookishness. ‘“Multiple catastrophic injuries” do you to be going on with? Chapter and verse, once I've had a rummage.’

As he spoke, and Morse stalked around the rooftop, DeBryn watched him from under veiled lashes. His hip seemed to have healed cleanly, there was no sign of him favouring it when he walked and he had risen from his crouch easily enough. But the fellow had lost weight in his time away; his cheekbones were more pronounced than they ought to be, and the line of his jaw too sharp. He was pale from a winter spent indoors and his eyes had new lines at their corners. He looked older. Older, and sadder; four months might have been four years.

DeBryn turned his eyes away as Morse wheeled to face him.

‘Nothing suspicious?’

DeBryn suppressed a smile. Time and grief may have withered him slightly, but Witney’s dull custom hadn’t managed to stale his infinite variety. Only Morse would try to make a straightforward suicide into foul play, and before he had shaken Witney’s dust from his shoes.

‘Only you, Morse.’

This won him a smile. Faint, and not fully reaching his eyes, but undeniably there and DeBryn allowed his lips to twitch up in response.

Should he say it now? DeBryn squared his shoulders, bowing his head to write industriously in his notebook, but after a moment he cleared his throat gently. He kept gaze ostensibly fixed on the page, and spoke gently.

‘Morse. I wanted to say how sorry I was, old chap, when I heard about–’ DeBryn glanced up, ‘about your...’

But Morse, with catlike softness of tread, had pocketed the glasses and left, without a goodbye or a by your leave, and DeBryn sighed, his mood souring. He snapped his notebook shut and scratched his temple with the end of his pencil. Light duties may have allowed Morse’s body to heal, but they hadn’t done anything for his manners.

\----------

The opinion was reinforced the next time he ran into Morse. Quite literally: he had come to deliver the post-mortem report of Frida Yelland and was pushing open the heavy door of Cowley Road station when he was nearly knocked off his feet by a tall figure charging out the same door, yanking it open as though he hoped to take it off its hinges and colliding with DeBryn.

DeBryn staggered back, automatically clutching his case to his chest. ‘Good God, man, look where you’re going!’

‘Sorry,’ a familiar voice snapped, not sounding remotely apologetic, and then a moment later Morse stopped, seeming to see DeBryn properly. ‘Oh. Doctor. My apologies.’

‘So I should hope.’ DeBryn righted himself, flustered and still annoyed. ‘You’d have knocked someone else off their feet. What in God’s name has got you so upset?’

For he clearly was upset; not only his treatment of the door but the set of his shoulders, the tension that had carved deep lines either side of his mouth, the sparking fire in his blue eyes all testified to it.

‘I’ve been taken off the case,’ Morse fairly spat.

DeBryn raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you indeed?’

It must be serious, whatever it was, for Thursday to have sent away his best and brightest, and DeBryn tilted his head, annoyance forgotten, awaiting an explanation.

But Morse only shifted his weight, scowling fiercely at the stone pillar next to them. ‘Yes.’

This close, DeBryn could get a proper look at him. He had noticed yesterday, of course, but this close it was apparent that the cut across Morse’s nose had barely scabbed over and the two black eyes had blossomed into their full colours, the deep purple smudges contrasting unattractively with the angry flush across his cheekbones.

‘I see,’ DeBryn said slowly. Clearly Morse wasn’t going to share the story, at least not until he stopped looking ready to set the world ablaze though sheer anger.

He nipped at his lip, hesitating. He really oughtn’t; it might be read the wrong way and create awkwardness. And yet call it the prompting of his Hippocratic Oath, call it pity, but DeBryn offered: ‘My shift actually finished–’ he glanced at his watch, ‘–five minutes ago. Once I drop this report off I was going for a spot of lunch. Care to join me?’

The annoyance on Morse’s face was replaced briefly by surprise. ‘Oh. I... er...’ He shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxing fractionally. ‘Yes, alright.’

‘Good.’ DeBryn tilted his head towards the car park. ‘Car’s over there. Back in a moment.’

Throughout the subsequent handing over of the report and verbal summary, DeBryn’s stomach fluttered and his palms grew damp. It was hardly improper, just one fellow providing a listening ear for another, yet DeBryn was oddly short of breath as he exited the station and approached the car, where Morse leaned against it.

The spring sunshine made Morse’s hair gleam with the dull shine of old bronze; he had closed his eyes and tilted his face back to appreciate its mild warmth, and DeBryn was struck anew by the loveliness of his features. His high cheekbones and narrow face; his beauty could almost be called delicate, save for that square chin that spoke of obstinacy.

‘Well then, off we go.’ Morse stood straight and opened his eyes at the sound of DeBryn’s voice and DeBryn quickly pulled his attention back to the car, unlocking the driver’s door and tossing the keys over the roof to Morse.

Morse winced as he caught them, and then again as he unlocked the passenger door and got in, and DeBryn looked at him sharply.

‘Here.’ Morse passed him the keys, their fingers brushing, and DeBryn scrutinised Morse.

‘I never asked...’ DeBryn said, carefully offhand as he started the car and reversed out of the parking space, ‘but is this–’ he brushed his fingertips across the bridge of his own nose ‘–the only souvenir of your misadventures?’

Beside him Morse shifted, long legs fidgeting and splaying, and after a moment he said, ‘No. They got in a couple of blows to the stomach also.’

The admission sounded dragged from him, and after a glance at him – Morse glaring out of the window – DeBryn let him be.

DeBryn’s house was in a modest area of Oxford. Not one of the most expensive but not too shabby; a quiet street with a bit of a garden at both front and back. An easy drive from the centre, and Cowley Road station, yet it was long enough for Morse to doze off, and DeBryn parked outside his house and looked over to find Morse’s head tilted back at an angle that made his own neck ache just looking at it.

DeBryn lifted a hand, hesitating. Morse asleep looked far more vulnerable than awake, and more sensual too: his knees had fallen open, his hands gently curled in his lap, his lips soft and slightly parted, as though awaiting a lover’s kiss to wake him.

Warmth stirred low in his belly and DeBryn swallowed, patting Morse briskly on the shoulder. ‘We’re here.’

‘Hmm?’ With a snort, Morse opened his eyes, looking confused at the wisteria by the front door. ‘Where are we?’

‘At our lunch venue.’ The drive wasn’t long, but it had been long enough for him to go under fairly deeply for he made no move but merely sat there, blinking owlishly. DeBryn arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry, were you expecting the Ritz?’

Morse shook his head muzzily. ‘No, I–’ He yawned, lifting his wrist belatedly to cover his mouth, and shifted his long legs. ‘I thought you meant the pub. For a pint.’

‘No, I meant lunch. As in the consumption of food, around midday.’ DeBryn glanced at the too-defined bones of Morse’s wrists, the narrowness of his hips. ‘Surely you’ve heard of the concept.’

DeBryn waited, almost daring Morse to reply, but Morse only grunted in acknowledgement and opened the door, levering himself stiffly to his feet. DeBryn watched his movements with a professional eye. Blows to the stomach, he had said. Unlikely he had been via the police surgeon to get checked over; as he followed Morse to the front door DeBryn bit his lip and quelled his natural impulse to offer assistance.

Instead DeBryn merely unlocked the door, silently waving Morse inside. He didn’t miss Morse’s glance around, doubtless taking in the series of watercolours hanging in the hallway, the telephone neatly aligned with the edge of the hall table. Nothing much that had changed since the last time he had been there, so many months ago, save this new reserve between them.

‘Well, you know where everything is,’ DeBryn said. Morse’s movements lacked grace as he shrugged out of his coat and dropped it carelessly onto a peg. ‘Take a seat in the living room and I’ll fetch you a drink. Water, tea, or coffee? Or I think there might be orange juice, if you’d rather.’

Sharp blue eyes met his, but DeBryn returned Morse’s look steadily, refusing to be cowed. Not difficult to guess what Morse wanted but DeBryn would be damned if he’d offer it: there was an unhealthy cast to Morse’s pale complexion, and the deep purple smudges under his eyes weren’t entirely due to injury.

‘Tea,’ Morse said, looking away. ‘Please.’

He hadn’t completely forgotten his manners, then, not to the point of asking for what wasn’t offered, and DeBryn nodded assent and turned away.

Waiting for the kettle to boil, DeBryn walked through to the dining room and opened the long French windows into the garden. It was a beautiful day, and the seat in the corner by the clematis was a perfect suntrap. Perhaps they should bring lunch out here, and DeBryn made a pot of tea and went to tell Morse to come through into the garden.

When he pushed open the living room door, however, it was to find Morse wouldn’t be going anywhere. He had sat on the sofa and leaned his head back before – lulled by the cool dimness of the north-facing room – he had dozed off again. The angle was making him snore slightly and his legs were sprawled apart, like a child’s puppet set down carelessly. Even in sleep he frowned slightly, and DeBryn sighed. When was the last time the man had slept properly?

He watched the soft rise and fall of Morse’s chest, the delicate flutter of his pulse in his throat, for a long moment before turning away to draw the curtains and fetch a blanket. Lunch could keep for an hour or so, if the fellow was that much more in need of rest than food.

The sun in the garden was every bit as warm as expected, and before long DeBryn had to lay aside his issue of the _British Medical Journal_ to remove his pullover and bowtie. He sat back, rolling up his sleeves and opening his collar, the warmth delicious on his bare forearms. But despite the sun, the blue tits chattering in the trees, the orange flash in the long grass at the top of the garden indicating the bloody cat was back, his mind was elsewhere: in the dim room at the front of the house, with the sleeping man on the sofa. It had been foolish to invite the fellow home yet Morse had looked so desperately in need of a friend, stood there outside the station with his world crumbling about his ears.

DeBryn sighed, picking up his discarded journal. Too late for second thoughts, now that Morse was in his house and asleep on his sofa, and DeBryn continued his reading, the air stirring lightly at the pages.

After a while, with a couple of articles still to go, a prickle on his nape made DeBryn look up. Morse stood in the doorway, squinting a little in the sunlight.

‘Ah, hullo.’ DeBryn lowered the journal to his lap. ‘Rejoined us?’

‘Yes,’ said Morse, and when DeBryn shifted along the bench Morse took a few stumbling steps and sank down next to him.

His nap had done away with any last vestiges of order, and his hair stuck up in tousled curls that begged for fingers to smooth them down. Morse had discarded his tie somewhere between the sofa and the French windows; his open shirt collar drew the eye to the delicate dip of the suprasternal notch – the perfect size for DeBryn’s thumbprint – and his shirttails straggled out of his trousers. Altogether, with the nose and the black eyes, he looked a thoroughly Bohemian, disreputable sort.

‘You shouldn’t have let me sleep.’ Morse braced his elbows on his knees to run his hands through his hair, rumpling it further.

DeBryn shrugged. ‘You obviously needed it. And if you’re off the case then you’ve nothing spoiling.’

Morse grunted, letting his hands hang between his knees. He stared out at the garden, the sun warming the grass and the few daffodils at the foot of the apple tree, but DeBryn doubted he was seeing any of it. Morse had the air of a man just barely holding himself together. If he had come seeking medical advice DeBryn would have prescribed a total break: from work, from the booze, from late nights and mournful operas and – God help him – Housman. There wasn’t much wrong with him that couldn’t be mended by leisure and sleep.

But Morse hadn’t come to him, had he? Instead DeBryn had invited him – almost abducted him – and now he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with the slowly fraying man pushing his thumb along the wood grain of the garden bench.

‘Do you want to tell me why you’re off the case?’ DeBryn ventured.

Morse sat up, levelling his gaze at DeBryn. ‘No.’

Well, that was fairly unequivocal, and as DeBryn cast about for something to say, Morse wet his lower lip and leaned in. DeBryn’s first, confused, thought was that Morse was going to tell him after all, impart the real reason in a secretive murmur, and when instead Morse’s mouth bumped his own DeBryn very nearly recoiled in shock.

Oh.

Morse’s lips were chapped, his mouth sour from sleep, but his hand clutched DeBryn’s shoulder like a lifeline and DeBryn cupped Morse’s too-sharp jaw, spreading his fingers to cradle his face. Morse’s tongue brushed DeBryn’s lip, coaxing his mouth open and DeBryn let himself be coaxed, tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss as heat bloomed low in his stomach.

It was followed an instant later by a guilty pang. This wasn’t what Morse needed now, despite DeBryn’s longing to invite him upstairs and reacquaint himself with the half-remembered scent of Morse’s skin, the particular sweet spot on his throat that invariably prompted a catch of breath. The fellow was upset, of course he could hardly be expected to reflect before acting, but DeBryn had no such excuse.

DeBryn shifted his hand on Morse’s face, easing them apart instead of caressing, softening the separation with a last lush kiss to the downturned corner of Morse’s lips.

‘I don’t think we should be doing this,’ DeBryn murmured against Morse’s warm mouth, as kindly as he could.

Morse’s expression fell anyway, and DeBryn removed his hand, sitting back to put a few vital inches between them. Belatedly, he glanced around. The garden was sheltered by thick hedges on either side, but they wouldn’t be much help against a neighbour looking out of their upstairs window.

Morse cleared his throat. ‘You’ve changed your mind, then. About...’

Morse’s hand hovered in the air between them and DeBryn couldn’t stop his eyebrows raising, watching Morse try to describe what they were to each other. DeBryn himself hadn’t a clue, and he would be astonished if Morse did.

But aloud he only said gently, ‘No, I–’

‘Then there’s someone else.’ Morse shifted away, folding his hands together tightly in his lap.

DeBryn snorted in amusement. ‘Do you imagine I’m working my way through Oxford City constabulary?’

Morse scowled, and DeBryn sighed. ‘ _No_ , Morse. I... look, I invited you for lunch because you seemed upset and I thought you might want a friendly ear. That was all. I hadn’t any intentions of...of...’

 _Of taking advantage_. But the words died on DeBryn’s lips, quelled by Morse’s imagined reaction to being cast in the role of helpless ingénue.

Morse bowed his head, looking down at his hands.

‘You didn’t have to,’ he muttered, his words half-lost in the space between them. ‘After we... I was bloody to you, the last time we...’

DeBryn sighed again, briefly wishing they were having this conversation over something stronger than Lapsang. ‘I won’t say I wasn’t offended at the time. But in hindsight... well.’ He dared to lay a hand on Morse’s shoulder, feeling bone too close to the skin under warm cotton. ‘I was sorry to hear about your father, old chap.’

In profile like this DeBryn hadn’t a clear view of Morse’s face. Nonetheless it was clear enough when Morse closed his eyes briefly, his lips pinching. ‘Thank you. It wasn’t unexpected. His heart, you know. He’d suffered with angina for years. And diabetes.’

‘I see.’ DeBryn made to withdraw his hand – touching Morse so soon after pushing him away hardly sent a clear message – but Morse’s hand half-lifted, a movement almost immediately subdued, and DeBryn settled his grip more firmly. ‘I was told you’d gone north to visit family. Is your mother coping with it all?’

Morse’s flinch was invisible to the eye, but felt clearly enough under DeBryn’s palm. ‘She’s not. I mean.’ Morse cleared his throat, staring at the grass between his feet. ‘She died. When I was young. So now there’s just my stepmother. And my sister.’

‘Oh Morse.’ DeBryn nipped his lip, his heart squeezing tight with pity. Morse was young to be so alone in the world; DeBryn would have liked to hug him, or at least put an arm around his shoulders, anything to let him feel the warmth of another human being at his side. But it hardly seemed appropriate. ‘I’m sorry.’

At last Morse turned his head to look at DeBryn. ‘It’s fine.’ He tried a smile, but it hung forlornly on his lips. ‘It was years ago.’

‘Hmm.’ DeBryn cast about for some comfort, but what could one say to that? Helplessly, hating his own uselessness, he fell back on practicalities. ‘There’s lunch in the kitchen, when you’re ready for it. Only soup and sandwiches, I’m afraid, but– Morse?’

Morse had twisted his face away, his back shuddering, and DeBryn stared, utterly baffled, before Morse reached up to dash his fingertips across his eyes.

Hang appropriate; there was a time to observe the formalities and a time when a chap needed to know he wasn’t alone, and DeBryn shifted along the bench to wrap an arm around Morse’s shoulders, leaning into him with steady sympathy while Morse caught his breath.

‘There, now.’ DeBryn rubbed Morse’s back, his other hand digging in his pocket for his clean handkerchief. ‘Here.’ He shook out the square of pale blue cotton, and offered it to Morse. ‘It’s alright, Morse, you’re alright.’

Morse scrubbed it roughly, almost angrily, across his eyes, and drew a shaky breath. ‘I was insubordinate.’

DeBryn frowned, confused. ‘Excuse me?’

‘At work. To Inspector Thursday. And Bright. I was sure that Copley-Barnes must have – but he can’t have done if...’ Morse exhaled his frustration, shrugging out of DeBryn’s arm. ‘So they sent me away.’

DeBryn was hardly more enlightened after that fragmented explanation, but even so. He withdrew his arm and sat back, putting a respectable distance between them once more.

‘I imagine the Inspector knows what he’s doing,’ DeBryn said mildly, watching Morse’s face crumple, his mouth pulling down. ‘Been doing it for a long time, after all.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Morse lifted his head to look at him, his eyes brimming with a deep sorrow. ‘There’s a father missing his daughter. I have to... that has to be set right. If I can’t do that, then what use am I?’

It was almost enough to make DeBryn put his arm back around the fellow, but he kept his distance. ‘Not everything is about being of use, Morse.’

Morse frowned, crumpling the handkerchief and drawing breath.

‘I mean you are also valued for yourself,’ DeBryn said, trying to make him see, and Morse subsided.

‘Can’t imagine who by,’ he muttered.

DeBryn pursed his lips, biting back his impatience with the fellow: sitting in DeBryn’s garden and clutching a borrowed handkerchief, after a sleep on DeBryn’s sofa, with food prepared and waiting for him in DeBryn’s kitchen.

‘I suppose not.’ DeBryn cleared his throat before Morse could think too much on that, and added; ‘You’re not yourself.’

Morse’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile as he glanced at DeBryn. It wasn’t as good as his real smile, but it was better than his tears. ‘Unfortunately I rather think I am – all too much so.’

But DeBryn wasn’t having any of this maudlin nonsense.

‘Then let’s make you into a better version of yourself,’ he retorted, rising from the bench. ‘Stay there and I’ll fetch lunch, you look half-starved. Did they not feed you out at Witney?’ DeBryn paused, gripping Morse’s shoulder briefly, consolingly. ‘You’ll find things look less grey once you’ve had something to put a bit of colour back into your cheeks.’

Morse shifted under his hand, sighing, then abruptly stilled. DeBryn looked down at his bent head, but before he could move Morse reached out to grab DeBryn’s thigh.

Startled, DeBryn restrained his flinch but raised his eyebrows. Surely the fellow wasn’t angling for another go.

‘Say that again.’ Morse’s voice was low but insistent.

DeBryn squinted at the bright tangle of hair. ‘I said things will look different once you’ve had something to put a bit of colour back into your cheeks.’ As much as Morse ever had, anyway. ‘They generally do, I find.’

Morse inhaled deeply, his grip tightening on DeBryn’s leg, and when he lifted his head it was DeBryn’s turn to still. There was a spark in Morse’s face that hadn’t been there a moment ago, as though someone had switched on a light inside him.

‘Max,’ Morse breathed, licking his lips, his expression hopeful, and DeBryn’s cheeks warmed in response to his Christian name in that particular low tone from Morse. ‘Did you say you were off for the rest of the afternoon?’

Behind his glasses, DeBryn narrowed his eyes, waiting to see where this was going. ‘I may have said something to that effect, yes.’

‘In that case...’ Morse stood, his eyes bright and his eyebrows tilted in a way that indicated DeBryn was unlikely to appreciate whatever followed. ‘Can I have a lift?’

DeBryn huffed. He had planned to enjoy his afternoon off in the garden with a book, not chauffeuring Morse all over the bloody place. But anything that put that sparkle back into Morse’s eyes wasn’t something he wanted to quash.

‘Oh, very well.’ DeBryn didn’t bother to hide his ill grace, the prospect of his quiet afternoon in the garden vanishing. ‘But...’

Morse’s shy smile flickered for a second. ‘Yes?’

DeBryn eyed the line of Morse’s jaw, the hollows of his cheeks, and spoke firmly. ‘After lunch.’

\----------

DeBryn pulled into his driveway and parked, humming the _Kyrie_ to himself. Such a lovely concert. Every bit as good as he had hoped, in fact; in Wolsey College chapel, with the music rising among the graceful pillars to touch the vaulted ceiling, the perfect setting for a requiem, with the soaring voices telling of the soul’s journey through purgatory and on into paradise. And during the interval DeBryn had fallen into conversation with a handsome chap, whose smiling hazel eyes and solicitous interest in DeBryn’s thoughts on the music had very nearly made DeBryn invite him back to the house for a nightcap.

In short, an evening that reminded him just why he had wanted to move to Oxford. It had warmed him down to his toes, and he smiled to himself as he removed the key from the car’s ignition. It was a shame to go straight to bed after that. Perhaps he would sit up with a glass of brandy for a while, replaying the concert in his head, and he stood and shut the car door behind him, already thinking of the 20-year old bottle of Napoleon.

The tall figure that detached itself suddenly from the shadows of the porch sent fear spiking through him, adrenaline searing his skin and fists clenching reflexively as the figure stepped toward him. The world leapt into sharper focus: the rustle of some small creature in the hedge, the scents of the night air, the jagged bite of the keys clutched tight in his hand. A poor weapon, if it came to it, but all he had. But–

‘DeBryn?’ said a familiar voice, a mere moment later, and DeBryn sagged back against the car in recognition. And in shaky-kneed relief, too, not that he would admit it to Morse, and he braced a hand discreetly against the car as his heart climbed down out of his throat.

‘Morse,’ he said weakly. The blood rushed in his ears and he pressed his other hand to his chest, trying to calm his racing heart. Thank God he hadn’t given voice to the womanish scream that had risen in his throat. ‘Dear Lord, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘Sorry.’ Morse approached, his pale face standing out while the rest of his dark coat and suit melted into the night.

‘What in God’s name are you doing here? Lurking in the shadows like that I’m surprised my neighbour hasn’t called the police to report a prowler.’ His knees no longer felt about to give way and DeBryn straightened, collecting his scattered dignity, and made his way to his front door.

‘I was waiting for you.’

DeBryn gave him a particularly acid look over the tops of his spectacles that, in the darkness, Morse was unfortunately in no position to appreciate. ‘Obviously.’

‘I went to the mortuary,’ Morse continued, oblivious, ‘and you’d already left, but you weren’t at home.’

‘Yes. Well.’ DeBryn opened his front door. ‘I do have a life, strange as it may seem. Hobbies other than corpses.’

‘Yes?’ Morse sounded interested, not rising to the sarcasm.

Subtly DeBryn rubbed his thumb into his palm, where the teeth of his keys had dug into his flesh. ‘Verdi, at Wolsey College.’

‘Oh yes?’ Morse followed him inside when DeBryn switched on the hall light, and closed the door behind himself. ‘Which pieces?’

‘The _Requiem_.’ It was acutely distracting to have Morse in his hallway, leaning so casually against the wall but making no move to take off his coat. ‘And a couple of his other works to finish.’

‘Mm.’ Morse’s face softened in recognition. ‘I didn’t know that was on.’

DeBryn shrugged. ‘Oxford has a fairly broad schedule, one can’t see everything.’

A noncommittal noise was Morse’s only reply. He probably managed to see more than most, despite the demands of his schedule. But DeBryn’s curiosity wouldn’t be postponed any longer.

‘Morse. More to the point, and for the second time: what are you doing here?’ DeBryn looked him up and down. He didn’t seem in need of medical attention. In fact, despite the black eyes turning yellow at the edges, he looked rather well: there was a new energy to his movements and a gleam to his eyes not seen since his return.

Only when Morse raised his hand did DeBryn notice he held a bottle. ‘I wanted to give you this.’

DeBryn tilted his head, puzzled, but took it. A Sauvignon; he may not know a lot about wine but he could recognise an expensive label when he saw one. ‘I see. And to what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘It’s to say. Well.’ Morse ducked his head, tugging at his ear. ‘Thank you, I suppose.’

Morse looking shy was rather lovely, and DeBryn murmured, ‘You’re welcome. But I still don’t quite see what I’ve done to merit it.’

‘You solved the case.’ Morse smiled at him, one of his rare genuine smiles, and DeBryn’s own mouth curved upwards in response.

‘Did I indeed?’

‘It was something you said, it put me on the right track and... well.’

Morse shrugged, trying to appear modest but visibly preening underneath it all, and DeBryn watched him with thinly concealed amusement. ‘I see. Then I’m pleased to have been of service.’

And then, encouraged by Morse’s open posture, the tilt of his head, DeBryn lifted the bottle and added, ‘Would you like to stay for a glass, then, and tell me more about how clever I am?’

Morse was still smiling, already shrugging off his coat. ‘Shall I get some glasses?’

‘Go and sit down.’ DeBryn handed him the bottle and nodded towards his living room door. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

In the kitchen, safely away from Morse’s sharp gaze, DeBryn braced his hands on the countertop and bowed his head, inhaling deeply. His stomach was tight with nerves; he had originally intended, on his return home, to have a bit of bread and cheese as a late supper but he couldn’t have swallowed a thing. He had thought Morse an attractive chap even when bruised in body and soul but like this, bright-eyed with fierce joy in the chase and capture, he was irresistible.

DeBryn swallowed hard, opened the glassware cupboard, and then paused as the faint strains of _Brindisi_ drifted down the hall. So Morse had found the record player, then.

In the living room Morse had drawn the curtains and switched on the lamps, creating a cosy little space, and DeBryn caught him perusing the bookshelves, trailing his fingers affectionately across a spine or two.

‘Does it pass muster?’ DeBryn asked dryly, setting the glasses on the table as he dug in his pocket for the corkscrew.

‘You’ve got Auden’s collected poems.’ Morse glanced at DeBryn before turning back to the bookcase, and DeBryn’s eyes wandered along the sleek line of Morse’s back. ‘The new edition.’

‘Yes. I daresay there’ll be some duplication with his earlier works, but–’ DeBryn shrugged, and twisted the cork free with a practiced motion, ‘I’ve a weakness for him.’

‘Mm.’

Morse crossed the room to hold out the glasses as DeBryn poured, until DeBryn set the bottle aside and took a glass from Morse. The wine gleamed pale gold in the lamplight, and DeBryn paused as Morse touched his glass to DeBryn’s. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ DeBryn replied. _Sweets for the sweet_ , he nearly said, but nipped his lip briefly. Morse inspired him to wickedness. ‘To a successful conclusion.’

‘More or less.’ There was a flash of sadness in Morse’s eyes and his smile dimmed, but the next moment his shoulders twitched and he turned away.

‘So.’ DeBryn made for an armchair by the fireplace, pausing on the way to adjust the volume of the record player and sparing a thought for Morse’s long-suffering neighbours. ‘Are you going to tell me how it was done?’

DeBryn sank into the comfortably overstuffed chair and watched Morse’s easy grace as he settled himself in its twin.

‘Well.’ Morse leaned back with a sigh, stretching his long legs towards the empty fireplace and crossing his ankles. ‘I suppose the crux of the matter rested on the negatives found in something Pettifer had owned.’

DeBryn listened as Morse spoke, laying out the story. He was actually a rather poor storyteller, DeBryn reflected, hiding a smile in his glass. He omitted key points that he then had to backfill, going off on a tangent, and skimmed over links in his chain of logic that he presumably thought obvious to anyone with half a brain. One could only hope he wrote his reports with more care.

The wine was heady, all ripe fruits and mellow tastes of summer, and DeBryn drank slowly, rolling each sip across his tongue before swallowing. And taking in the sight in front of him: Morse had relaxed enough to let his knees splay slightly, tugging off his tie absently as he spoke, long hands moving sharply through the air and face animated. DeBryn could have sat and watched him all evening.

‘We arrested them last night.’ Morse reached over to his glass and took a slow mouthful. ‘Well, the early hours of this morning.’

‘Indeed? You must be exhausted.’ DeBryn eyed him, but Morse didn’t look like a man who had been up for thirty-six hours. He looked vividly alive: mouth curling up and eyes sparkling, and DeBryn couldn’t help but smile in response.

A smile that was echoed a moment later, as Morse’s focus shifted from the empty hearth to DeBryn himself, his smile changing from something satisfied to something altogether more... speculative.

DeBryn bit his lip, and Morse’s gaze flicked to his mouth.

‘So.’ Morse gathered his legs under him to stand. ‘You see you were quite indispensible.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ DeBryn murmured, distracted utterly by Morse’s long legs as he reached the side table and curled two fingers deftly around the neck of the wine bottle.

‘Let me top you up.’ Morse crossed to DeBryn’s chair, reaching down to gently lift DeBryn’s half-full glass from his unresisting hand.

Like this DeBryn’s face was on a level with Morse’s hips. His slim hips, framed by the loose folds of his jacket, and DeBryn dragged his eyes up to Morse’s face to find Morse watching him steadily. Almost thoughtfully, and when he handed DeBryn his newly filled glass his fingers brushed DeBryn’s, seeming to linger.

The air grew thick with tension and things unsaid. Before DeBryn could make some inconsequential remark to break it, Morse was setting aside the wine bottle and crouching by DeBryn’s armchair to look up into DeBryn’s face.

‘In your garden, the other day,’ Morse began. This close his eyelashes were a soft sweep that veiled his gaze when he looked down. And when he looked back up the next instant, his eyes greener at this distance than they had appeared from the other armchair, DeBryn swallowed, his throat working. ‘I wasn’t at my best.’

‘Mm.’ DeBryn gripped his wineglass carefully, rendered inept by Morse’s sudden proximity, his scrutiny. ‘You seemed half-mad.’

Morse cocked his head, smiling faintly. ‘Ah, yet I am but mad north-north-west.’

Despite himself, DeBryn’s lips twitched. ‘Is the wind southerly once more, then?’

His momentary amusement died almost at once, as Morse’s hand settled feather-light on his knee. ‘And I know a hawk from a handsaw.’

For a long moment DeBryn was speechless, his heart skittering at the simple touch. He ought to say something, some light and witty reply, but his mind was focussed utterly on Morse’s fingertips resting against his inseam, separated from skin by the thin wool of his trousers.

‘Max...’ Morse was looking into his face, and after a moment he reached out to gently pluck the wineglass from DeBryn’s hand and set it aside. In lieu of reaching for him DeBryn clasped his hands tightly together in his lap, and a moment later Morse rested a hand over both of DeBryn’s. ‘I wonder if I could try again?’

Warmth flooded DeBryn’s face. ‘You...’ DeBryn wet his lips, his mouth gone dry, his stomach fluttering wildly between nerves and elation, ‘I daresay you could, yes, if you had a mind to–’

Morse’s kiss was soft. In stark contrast to the clumsy effort in the garden, this one was hesitant, a mere shy press of lips and DeBryn touched Morse’s cheek, holding him close when he would have drawn back. His nose bumped lightly against Morse’s, making him flinch, and DeBryn muttered a breathless apology before tilting his head and trying again.

Morse’s lips were already parted slightly. It took very little coaxing to open them fully, and at the first delicate brush of Morse’s tongue against his lips DeBryn’s breath stuttered under a fierce curl of arousal.

God, he had missed this. The plush softness of Morse’s mouth, the scent of him – paper and soap and faint traces of cigarette smoke, all overlaid with a hint of aftershave. He had taken time to groom himself before coming over here, then; and – DeBryn drew his fingertips lightly along Morse’s jaw, the skin soft and smooth – had a second shave too.

His body was thrumming, his arousal surging through him like a match set to kindling. The world seemed to leap into sharper focus: the gentle press of Morse’s mouth, the half-forgotten scent of his skin, the shy touch of his hand to DeBryn’s knee, slowly tracing up along his inseam. DeBryn cupped Morse’s nape briefly before sliding his fingers up to tangle in his hair and gave himself over to the experience of kissing him.

When Morse pulled back, DeBryn bit his lip and rested a hand on Morse’s arm. He was half-hard, his cock thickening, and he spread his knees, subtly easing the constriction of his underwear.

‘Could we go to bed?’ Morse’s voice was low, thrumming with hunger.

As though DeBryn would refuse him a second time.

‘Yes.’ His own voice emerged reasonably steady, if a little breathless, but he stumbled a little when Morse tugged him to his feet. The fabric of his underwear was rubbing tantalisingly over his cock, heating his blood with desire, and he followed when Morse caught his hand and drew him towards the living room door and up the stairs.

In the bedroom Morse stripped off tie, shirt, and vest, and DeBryn paused in his own disrobing at the sight of Morse’s torso. Not in arousal either, for his stomach was mottled purple and yellow, and DeBryn drew close and traced gentle fingertips across the injuries.

‘A couple of blows to the stomach.’ Morse was watching him assess the extent of the damage. ‘I did tell you.’

‘You did.’

And he was telling the truth about the extent, at least. The bruising showed evidence of only two blows, two distinct epicentres, and they had already begun to yellow significantly. But they were to the solar plexus, and must knocked the chap completely breathless.

‘That must have hurt like hell,’ DeBryn murmured, laying his palm flat over one.

Morse shrugged, his mouth twisting wryly. ‘I wasn’t best pleased.’

He kissed DeBryn again, reaching for the small buttons of DeBryn’s evening shirt, and DeBryn reciprocated by loosening Morse’s belt, careful not to press against those dreadful bruises.

When Morse stripped his shirt off, self-consciousness nipped briefly at DeBryn. If Morse had lost weight over the past few months then he was fairly sure he had gained it; either that or the washing machine was shrinking his trousers. But Morse slid his own trousers and shorts off and got into bed, and watched with open interest in his face as DeBryn stripped naked and followed.

The sheets were cool against his skin, but Morse pressed warm against him and wrapped his arms around DeBryn as he kissed him. His bare thighs slid against DeBryn’s and DeBryn caught his breath, his heart pounding. Morse’s chest was firm, the pale hair coarse under DeBryn’s wandering fingertips, with countless freckles scattered across his shoulders and DeBryn ducked his head to kiss one of them.

Morse’s hands firmed on his back, drawing them both together from chest to knees, and DeBryn kissed his mouth and groaned softly as his cock slid against Morse’s hip. He tilted his hips forward, chasing more of that tantalising pressure, and Morse sighed into his mouth as DeBryn’s length rubbed along his own.

Abruptly they weren’t close enough, despite Morse’s chest and stomach warm against his own, and DeBryn rolled onto his back, gripping Morse’s hips to draw him on top of DeBryn. The resulting pressure on the bruises didn’t seem to deter Morse in the slightest; he followed easily and knelt astride DeBryn’s thighs, flushed and breathless.

It left the whole of his long torso on display and DeBryn stared, greedy for the sight of him after so many months without, and his gaze roamed over Morse’s chest and stomach, the flushed length of his cock, before being abruptly arrested at the top of his thigh. The scar was small, a round circle no bigger than a sixpence, but it was bright red and stood out sharply against Morse’s pale skin. It looked painful and DeBryn reached for it, instinctively wanting to press his palm to it, belatedly protective, before checking himself.

In this moment Morse would hardly want reminded of the shooting, or the agonising patch-up job that had immediately followed, and DeBryn changed direction at the last moment to press his palm to Morse’s cock. It surged under his touch and Morse’s eyelids fluttered, his hips canting forwards to press himself against DeBryn’s hand, but the next instant he drew back.

‘Not yet.’

He leaned down swiftly to press a quick kiss to DeBryn’s mouth, silencing DeBryn’s question, and began to slide down the bed. At Morse’s kiss, pointedly low on his stomach, DeBryn’s cock jerked sharply under a wave of arousal and he swallowed thickly. Morse looked up at him, smiling wickedly, and at the sight of his mouth so close to DeBryn’s erection, DeBryn bit his lip.

‘I thought I might...’ Morse’s words trailed off but he dipped lower to run his mouth along DeBryn’s inner thigh, working his way higher inch by tantalising inch, and DeBryn gasped, squeezing his eyes closed, his cock aching.

‘If you like.’ Unbidden his hand reached for the bedside table, the box of condoms, before he checked himself.

There was no need. Not here and now, not with this man, and DeBryn drew his hand back quickly. Not quickly enough, though; Morse’s eyes flicked to his hand and then back to his face.

‘There hasn’t been anyone, then.’ He nosed at DeBryn’s hipbone, his lashes lowered and hiding his expression. ‘Since the last time we...’ 

‘Not without protection.’

A flicker of tension, there and gone in a flash, but as Morse ran his mouth with deliberate casualness along DeBryn’s hip, DeBryn could have kicked himself. It sounded as though he had tomcatting about over the winter, when in reality there had been only Guy – at the end of February, when he had gone to London for a conference and a solitary night in a hotel had seemed too depressing – and a couple of unsatisfying visits out to Godstow. And of course there had been condoms, at least at Godstow. DeBryn had insisted: even under the stupefying effects of his arousal his brain couldn’t be prevented from supplying lamentably detailed information on the treatment for syphilis infection, sufficient to cool even the hottest ardour.

‘I-I mean...’ DeBryn stuttered as Morse curled his fingers warmly around his cock. ‘That is–’

‘It’s fine.’ Morse’s voice was just a touch too loud. He wouldn’t meet DeBryn’s eyes, and DeBryn was still trying to find words to explain when Morse lowered his head to touch his parted lips to the head of DeBryn’s cock.

DeBryn sucked in a shaking breath, pleasure surging sharply in his groin. Morse’s head was bowed, hiding his expression, and DeBryn tipped his head back and closed his eyes, parting his knees further and giving himself over to the sensation. It had been so long since anyone had done this for him, longer still since he had had Morse in his bed warm and eager, and he gave a low moan as Morse opened his mouth and DeBryn pushed slowly, filthily, up into slick heat.

The air in the bedroom seemed thin and insubstantial as DeBryn panted for breath, Morse settling into it and setting up a steady rhythm that had DeBryn gripping the sheets and swearing through gritted teeth. His hand squeezed the base of DeBryn’s cock, his mouth lingered over the tip, and DeBryn moaned helplessly as his thighs shuddered, his balls drawing up tight and sensitive.

At the last moment Morse pulled his mouth away, pulling his slick fist tightly along DeBryn’s length, following the ragged hitches of DeBryn’s hips, until DeBryn cried out, coming into Morse’s hand and over his own stomach and hips.

Morse stroked him through it, and when DeBryn relaxed he crawled up the bed to kiss DeBryn’s mouth, smiling like a satisfied cat.

‘Mm.’ DeBryn was still catching his breath, but he roused himself to return Morse’s kiss. His hand wandered down to Morse’s erection and rubbed his palm along it, hot and hard, and he listened to Morse’s breath shiver. ‘I could return the favour.’

‘Hmm.’ Morse shifted to nuzzle DeBryn’s temples, wet with sweat. ‘Yes please.’

So DeBryn rolled them over, pressing Morse back into the pillows, and slid down the bed. He rubbed his cheek low on Morse’s stomach, drinking in his clean skin, the musky scent of male arousal. His hands stroked Morse’s thighs, coaxing them wider, and he lowered his mouth to Morse’s cock.

It was its own sort of intense pleasure to do this for a man. To listen to his catch of breath, feel the shivering tension mounting in the thighs pressed tightly to his shoulders, stroke his tongue along the length of him and swallow the taste of desire. And Morse was rather lovely like this; straining upwards to DeBryn’s mouth, so unashamedly eager for his touch. DeBryn sucked him until he felt Morse’s cock stiffen further, thickening slightly, and was ready for him when Morse groaned harshly as he came, his hands gripping DeBryn’s shoulders like a man needing an anchor.

When he was done DeBryn let his cock slide free, catching his breath, and crawled back up the bed to lie among the mauled pillows. He smiled at Morse still panting raggedly. His mouth tingled, his lips tender and sensitised; belatedly he realised his chin was wet – he had made more of a mess than he thought at the finish – and he lifted his arm, making to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth until he could get to the bathroom.

A hand caught his wrist, a hand that was hot and sweaty-palmed, and DeBryn let Morse pull his hand away. ‘Morse?’

‘Max.’ Morse was flushed and smiling, looking up at him as though DeBryn was some sort of new and wonderful discovery, and DeBryn let the fellow reach up to touch his face with soft fingertips. He closed his eyes, the better to feel the delicate tremble in Morse’s fingers as they rubbed across his mouth and down over the slipperiness on his chin and jaw.

‘That...’ The word trailed off, and DeBryn opened his eyes to watch Morse apparently hypnotised by the slide of his own fingers across DeBryn’s skin. Morse drew breath, his lips parting as though he might complete his sentence, but instead he stayed silent, letting his hand drop from DeBryn’s face and rolling onto his side. He turned his face into the pillow, sliding a thigh across DeBryn’s. ‘I did miss you, you know.’

Missed the regular sex, more like, DeBryn thought wryly to himself as he dragged his forearm over the lower half of his face, but it was without rancour. Instead the corners of his mouth curled irrepressibly upwards at the sight of Morse sprawled there, utterly wrung-out. It wasn’t often he had the ability to render Morse speechless for any reason; best enjoy it while he could.


	2. Chapter 2

It took some time to notice the flyer, shoved as it was at one end of the morgue’s stainless steel bench. DeBryn mistook it at first for a crumpled piece of tissue paper or a rag, used to wipe up and tossed aside. He prided himself on the cleanliness of his workspace but it had been a busy day, after all, and he could be forgiven for allowing standards to slip just a little.

But when he picked it up, during the day’s final clean-up, and saw the writing he flattened it against the bench, smoothing the creases as he read: Mozart’s Mass in C Minor, tomorrow evening in the grounds of Baidley College.

He frowned. This wasn’t his. He would have remembered picking it up, to say nothing of the impossibility of him emptying his pockets out onto the scrupulously organised mortuary bench, and not onto the desk in his private office.

Worry nipped at him. Could this have come down with one of the recent admissions, and been overlooked when bagging up the deceased’s personal effects? Surely not. He was rigorous in his work, he couldn’t possibly have made such an elementary mistake.

He chewed his lip. Word had reached the mortuary of how Thursday’s anger had broken over the heads of his team when Pettifer’s notebook disappeared from the evidence lock-up. As well it should have: missing evidence was no small thing in an active investigation. And even though DeBryn’s most recent patients weren’t victims of foul play, only the usual mishaps, there had been that one autopsy first thing this morning for the OCP, the Atkinson case Thursday and Morse were working on.

There was only one way to be sure, and DeBryn eyed the thick stack of folders in his Out tray – neatly processed and awaiting collection – and swore under his breath. He had been looking forward to finishing at a reasonable time; going home for a gin and tonic and perhaps catching up with _The Archers_ , and now it seemed it would have to wait. With a black look at the clock, he drew the topmost file towards him and opened it.

Half an hour later, thoroughly disgruntled, DeBryn shuffled the papers of the last file back into order and flipped it shut.

It certainly didn’t belong to any of the mortuary’s current residents, going by the carefully logged records of their effects, and he sighed and picked it up. The mortuary had a fair amount of foot traffic over the course of a normal day, and perhaps someone had dropped it.

He read the text once more. Mozart. And an open-air performance, too... it did sound rather good. Rather like the sort of thing he would enjoy, and he stuffed it into his pocket and gathered his belongings. He would have to check whether his evening suit was in need of pressing.

\----------

While it was true that several people passed through the morgue on a daily basis, it hadn’t escaped DeBryn that there were few who could be said to take an interest in Mozart. One might even say very few, and as DeBryn stood in front of his bathroom mirror and shaved, he wondered whether he might bump into a certain detective at the concert.

Morse hadn’t mentioned it when he was in the morgue earlier that day, although in fairness he had been standing a deferential step behind Thursday as DeBryn gave them a brisk précis of oleander leaf toxicity. Not exactly conducive to lingering chat about musical preferences. Yet who else could have dropped such a thing?

DeBryn tapped foam off his razor, shaking his head at himself.

What right had he to assume interest from Morse? He had fallen into this trap before. Last autumn, letting his fancies run away with him at Morse’s continued seeking him out. Reading far too much into things, and then having no-one to blame but himself when his imaginings had been revealed to be no more than that: castles in the air, spun out of nothing more than a few evenings spent in each other’s company.

They had only spent a couple of evenings together since Morse’s return, but what evenings they had been... The mere memory woke desire, hot and hungry; his hand trembled as he negotiated the curve of his jaw, and almost at once there was a sharp pain on his earlobe, a dot of blood blooming red against the white foam.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ DeBryn snapped, dropping the razor into the basin with a clatter and reaching for the roll of toilet paper. ‘Pull yourself together, man.’

The shaving soap stung fiercely as DeBryn pressed a wad of paper against his earlobe, gritting his teeth.

‘It’s only a bloody concert,’ he told himself savagely, dabbing at the tiny nick. ‘Ten to one he’s not even going anyway.’

As dogs returned to their vomit, so fools repeated their folly, and DeBryn blotted his ear until the bleeding stopped. He picked up his razor to finish off the last bits.

No. Fool me once, and all that; if Morse did happen to be there, then they would greet each other as nodding acquaintances, possibly exchanging the sort of banal pleasantries that befitted occasional colleagues. There was no reason they couldn’t be civil, after all. No reason to make himself ridiculous by hoping for more. 

He dressed and made his way to Baidley to take his seat in the walled garden. The night was mild, the garden walls slowly releasing the accumulated heat of the day, and the roses exuding a delicious scent that vied with the perfume and aftershave of the concert-goers.

DeBryn himself had dabbed on a discreet bit of aftershave, and the unfamiliar scent tickled his nose as he took his seat. He picked up the programme from the neighbouring seat and flicked through it determinedly, forbidding himself to lift his eyes from the short summary of Mozart’s life and work.

It was a relief when the music began and DeBryn could abandon the pretence of reading. The choir were excellent, and the gardens beautiful in the gathering dusk, yet DeBryn’s attention wandered. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep himself from looking for Morse. Time to admit it and stop deluding himself; he had hoped Morse had left the scrap of paper there. That he had intended it as an invitation, something he thought DeBryn would enjoy. They were rather kindred spirits, DeBryn secretly thought. Neither of them inclined to join in with the crowd, both rather bookish and cerebral. Not to mention – DeBryn shifted slightly in his seat, his face warming – sharing certain other proclivities.

But after all, it was only those proclivities that had thrown them together, wasn’t it? He was foolish: his imagination running away with him over a discarded scrap of paper, because it was clear that even if Morse were here then he was staying so carefully out of DeBryn’s sight that it sent an unmistakable message. DeBryn swallowed heavily, his mood souring.

A scattering of applause broke into DeBryn’s reverie, and he looked up. It seemed that the time had flown by while he had been wrapped in his thoughts, for his fellow attendees were stirring in their seats, getting up and drifting over to the bar set up in a corner of the garden. He rose to let a couple step past him and exit the row, and then abruptly turned to follow rather than re-seating himself.

Damn this. He had barely heard the first half of the concert and at this rate was unlikely to hear any more of the second; the wretched suit was uncomfortable, and when he thought of how he had dressed, with all the care of a man off courting, his face burned. He had been foolish enough for one evening, no need to prolong it to the bitter end, and DeBryn turned on his heel with disappointment sharp in his chest.

He was almost at the archway of the garden, brushing past men in evening suits and women in silky dresses in jewel-coloured hues, when a hand gripped his arm.

‘Max.’

DeBryn turned, confused. ‘Morse?’

‘Hullo.’ Morse had made a long arm to reach through the throng, and as DeBryn met his gaze Morse slid gracefully between people to stand in front of him. ‘You’re here.’

‘As you see.’ DeBryn’s injured pride gave a coolness to his tone. First the fellow avoided him all evening, and now he was standing far too close, flushed and breathless as though he had been running. It was entirely too close to how he looked during other types of exertion entirely and DeBryn dropped his gaze, hyperaware of every inch between their bodies.

Morse had his own evening suit, one that fit him better than DeBryn’s. Or perhaps it was just his height, the breadth of his shoulders tapering to his narrow waist, that made him so striking, and DeBryn glanced away from the crisp line of the white collar at his throat.

‘You’re...’ DeBryn heard, rather than saw, Morse’s frown as he took in DeBryn’s path, the set of his shoulders and lack of a drink in his hand. Morse’s hand brushed his forearm. ‘You’re not leaving?’

‘I...’ DeBryn could hardly admit the truth but, caught like this, a lie wouldn’t stand scrutiny.

‘Do you not like it?’ DeBryn looked up to find Morse frowning at him, the corners of his mouth drawn down in disappointment. ‘I thought you’d enjoy Mozart.’

‘Hence why you left that paper in my mortuary,’ DeBryn said, not really needing the confirmation of Morse ducking his head and looking faintly abashed.

‘I just thought... I saw his Mass in C Minor in your record collection and...’ Morse shrugged, looking suddenly awkward despite his elegant suit. ‘I thought you might like this.’ He shifted his weight. ‘I meant to mention it at the time, but we were interrupted. And then I meant to ring you but...’

The words faltered and died in the silent space between them, and DeBryn suppressed a sigh. At some point in the near future he would need to have words with Morse about leaving items strewn about a morgue. The chap had made enough fuss about that notebook going missing; odd he hadn’t seemed to realise that the reverse was also true.

‘It’s very nice,’ DeBryn said, which was true as far as it went. The mass was indeed a lovely piece. Just a pity he himself hadn’t listened to any of the first half.

Morse looked at him, all sharp blue eyes and sharper mind, and DeBryn looked down, the set of his cufflink abruptly the most fascinating thing in the world.

‘I–’ Morse was interrupted by a couple on their way out of the garden, brushing between the pair of them, and Morse let them pass before gripping DeBryn’s elbow and drawing him aside to the edge of the throng.

‘I’m late,’ he murmured, standing close enough for DeBryn to catch the scent of his aftershave. ‘I thought I might catch you before the start, but I had to finish... at the station, Inspector Thursday had me typing up the report for–’ Morse waved his hand abruptly in the direction of Cowley Road station, an impatient slice that dismissed the whole lot of them. ‘I got away as soon as I could.’

‘Of course.’ Morse’s hand still cupped DeBryn’s elbow with a firm pressure, warm even through the layers of jacket and shirt. DeBryn tried a shrug, hoping to convey a lack of concern. ‘I understand.’

Morse squeezed his elbow briefly. ‘Good.’

His head was bowed, his shoulders angled slightly as he tried to see into DeBryn’s face, and DeBryn lifted his chin to meet his gaze. Morse looked at him for a long moment, eyes flicking between DeBryn’s, before he nodded slightly.

‘Then I...’ Morse wet his lip, a flash of pink tongue, and rubbed a hand over his nape. ‘Could I buy you a drink?’

To his own surprise, a smile curled the corners of DeBryn’s mouth. The evening air was mild; he stood straighter, drawing a deep breath as the tension in his shoulders melted away, and Morse’s glance at his chest held a fleeting flicker of interest. ‘You could.’

The crowd that DeBryn had found so oppressive parted easily for Morse as he wove his way to the bar. He was served promptly, far more promptly than DeBryn had been when he had bought a pre-performance Scotch to calm his nerves.

‘What?’ Morse turned to him, a pair of glasses cradled in one long-fingered hand, and caught DeBryn’s faint amusement.

DeBryn only shook his head. Morse wore his good looks lightly, all the more attractive for being so unselfconscious about them. ‘Nothing.’

He really had no idea of how well his suit fitted him, had he. DeBryn had watched glances sent his way by most of the women – and a few of the men – yet Morse only nodded his thanks to the barman and walked a few paces away, turning his back on the crowd.

‘Here you are.’

DeBryn took the offered glass, Morse’s fingers brushing his own. ‘Thank you.’

‘Cheers.’ Morse held out his glass and DeBryn touched his own to it lightly.

‘What are we drinking to?’

A pause, as Morse looked at him thoughtfully. ‘The new year, perhaps. Full of things that have never been.’

DeBryn looked at him sharply but Morse was already looking away, lifting his glass to drink, his sleeve pulling back to expose his wrist, and DeBryn swallowed a mouthful of Scotch, welcoming the warmth and the distraction from Morse’s hands.

‘So...’ Morse shifted his feet, looking down into his glass. ‘How was your day?’

DeBryn squinted at him, confused. ‘Want all the gory details, do you?’

‘No,’ said Morse, a bit too quickly, and swallowed. ‘I just. Good, was it?’

‘Well enough,’ said DeBryn, still trying to puzzle out what exactly Morse was up to. ‘And yourself?’

‘Yes, fine.’

DeBryn barely resisted rolling his eyes. Even without a body, they could usually manage better than this. If all Morse had wanted was a quick tumble in the sheets he could have turned up at DeBryn’s door, Lord knew he’d demonstrated by now that he knew the address and had no shyness over stopping by unannounced. And if he had wanted stilted conversation for the interval there were any number of other concert-goers who would have been only too happy to oblige; DeBryn hadn’t missed the covert interest and nor – he began to suspect – had Morse. But Morse turned his back, seeming content to ignore them all in favour of DeBryn’s halting replies to his awkward questions.

‘What are you reading at the moment?’ Morse tried, his head tilted in polite enquiry.

‘A study on pre-mortem exsanguination and its effect on post-mortem temperature, specifically with regard to time of death estimates,’ said DeBryn, wanting to see how far Morse would take this sudden odd burst of small talk. When Morse swallowed uneasily, DeBryn relented with a faint smile.

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Actually I’m re-reading _A Passage to India_.’

‘Oh.’ Morse brightened. ‘Yes, I know it.’

This was rather more like it. A familiar light came into Morse’s face, and DeBryn soon found himself pressed to give an account of his thoughts, and to defend his opinions when Morse’s mouth slanted his disagreement. Morse was sufficiently well-read to hold his own against DeBryn, and it was all too soon that the bell sounded for the end of the interval.

‘Here.’ Morse reached for DeBryn’s empty glass, and this time the brush of his fingers was entirely deliberate, dipping lightly beneath his jacket cuff to touch the inside of his wrist.

DeBryn’s face warmed and he looked away, gathering himself as Morse stepped away to deposit their empty glasses at the bar. The seats either side of him had been occupied during the first half but there had been some vacant places in the back row. Perhaps they might find two together.

‘I’ll see you afterwards?’ Morse asked, reappearing at DeBryn’s side.

DeBryn blinked, off-balance again. ‘I had thought...’

One minute Morse was at his side, the next he was fairly itching to get away; it was enough to make a chap dizzy and DeBryn faltered.

‘Max.’ Morse’s voice was confused. ‘I’m singing. I need to join the choir.’

‘Oh.’ DeBryn looked down, fussing with a cufflink. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘What did you think I meant?’

‘Nothing.’ The bar was nearly empty, and DeBryn tilted his head towards the makeshift stage set against the far wall of the garden. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Before I go...’ Morse stepped closer, ducking his head. ‘I was wondering...’

DeBryn swallowed hard, his blood surging at this new proximity, Morse’s eyes a lively blue and the line of his throat begging for DeBryn’s mouth.

‘Might there be any chance of a lift home afterwards?’

A sharp retort was on the tip of DeBryn’s tongue, until he looked at Morse’s face and saw the question in his eyes. He glanced away, pretending to consider, fighting a smile while his stomach fluttered with desire.

‘That all depends on your singing.’ DeBryn lifted his chin, arching an eyebrow. ‘If you succeed in charming me sufficiently then yes, I daresay there might.’

Morse’s smile flashed across his face, the shy grin DeBryn saw all too rarely, and he leaned in to murmur, ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

A thud of lust heated DeBryn’s face, helped along by the touch of Morse’s hand to his elbow and his breath on DeBryn’s neck.

‘Get along with you,’ he ordered, conscious of the betraying flush in his cheeks. Indiscreet, to be flirting like this in a public place, never mind that there was no-one to hear them. In the kindly obscurity of the falling dusk he risked laying a hand on Morse’s waist, pushing him away lightly.

A last grin, and Morse wheeled to stride away while DeBryn drew a deep breath, willing the heat away from his face. Thank heavens the bar was empty and he fussed with his glasses, getting out his handkerchief to clean them, until he could resume his seat with equanimity.

The second half was a different experience; it could nearly have been a different evening altogether. The music washed over him and DeBryn relaxed back into his seat and gloried in it, knowing all the while that it was pure fancy to imagine it was Morse’s voice that made the difference – or even that he could distinguish it among the many blending together in harmony. But DeBryn could see him clearly enough: standing in the back row, his face open and unguardedly happy as he never was in daily life, and while Morse watched the conductor intently, DeBryn took the opportunity to look his fill.

And afterwards DeBryn lingered in his seat, pretending to read the programme and watching covertly as Morse said his farewells to his choir, only staying the bare minimum that courtesy dictated before breaking away and loping over with his long stride.

‘Well?’ Morse demanded.

‘Hullo to you too,’ DeBryn said, _sotto voce_ , as he set aside his programme and rose to his feet, amused at the lack of a proper greeting as Morse stood before him, hands in pockets and expectant.

Morse was positively glowing; the chap was attractive enough when fretful or irritated or thoughtful, but like this – happy from a successful concert, half-drunk on beautiful music – he was incandescent.

‘Very nice,’ DeBryn allowed gravely.

‘Nice?’ Morse rocked back on his heels slightly, his eyebrows lifting but his smile widening. ‘Just “nice”?’

DeBryn stepped closer and Morse bent his head conspiratorially.

‘It was exquisite, as well you know.’ DeBryn spoke low, for Morse’s ears alone. ‘And certainly good enough to win you a lift home to your bed.’ He caught Morse’s gaze and held it. ‘Or any other bed that might take your fancy.’

‘Hmm.’ Morse smiled at him, eyes gleaming the perfect deep blue of the night sky, and DeBryn could only watch hungrily.

If one of them had been female then DeBryn would have reached for Morse in that moment. Cupped his elbow, or rested a hand on his back, or simply touched his wrist. Anything to show his ardent admiration, because it was a hitherto undiscovered torment to stand mere inches from a Morse who was so deliciously pleased with himself, yet who was also as unreachable as though they stood on opposite banks of the Cherwell.

‘Well then.’ Morse shifted, subtly angling a shoulder behind DeBryn’s and tipping his head towards the exit. ‘Shall we?’

The car was parked just a short distance away. And yet DeBryn could have wished it further, because Morse stayed close as a shadow as they walked, shoulders brushing and the breeze carrying faint hints of his aftershave, and as they approached the car Morse even dared – in the privacy of darkness, and the quiet street – to stroke a hand down DeBryn’s back, a warm line of pressure that began at his shoulder blades and ended in the sensitive spot at the small of DeBryn’s back, the spot that seemed wired directly to his groin.

‘Morse...’ His reprimanding tone was breathless with waking arousal.

‘Max.’ Morse’s breath was warm on the side of his throat, and DeBryn paused to unlock the passenger door and tried to work some saliva into his dry mouth.

A flash of teeth in the dim light as Morse smiled, and then he was gently pressing DeBryn aside with a palm on his hip, swinging open the door and sliding his lanky frame into the car. Swallowing hard, DeBryn walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat, but as he fastened his seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition a hand brushed the side of his thigh.

DeBryn’s sharp breath was lost in the sound of the engine starting.

‘Now stop that,’ DeBryn said tartly, as Morse’s fingers trailed lightly down to his knee. He switched on the headlights and set off, only just remembering to check the road before he pulled out. ‘Else we’ll both end up wrapped around a lamppost.’

Morse subsided into the passenger seat. ‘Sorry.’

He didn’t sound particularly penitent, though. And as DeBryn stole a glance at him, he was forced to admit Morse didn’t look it either. The flash of passing streetlights showed the curl of a smile on his face, and DeBryn bit his lip against the giddiness bubbling over in his chest.

The car was quiet, other than the soft rumble of the engine. Morse wasn’t inclined to conversation, however that didn’t mean he was silent; instead, after a while, DeBryn became aware he was humming softly to himself, his fingers tapping a gentle rhythm against his thigh. DeBryn concentrated and picked out phrases of music; phrases that he recognised at once, having heard them not an hour ago.

It was vanishingly rare that Morse ever looked so happy, and an answering surge of joyful anticipation rose in DeBryn’s chest. It was enough to make him, when he pulled into his driveway and parked, lay a hand on Morse’s knee, unable to bear an instant longer without touching him.

In the darkness Morse’s eyes were unreadable but his head tipped questioningly towards him. ‘Max?’

In lieu of a reply DeBryn reached for him, sliding his hand up to grip Morse’s lean thigh and pawing clumsily at the lapel of his jacket, drawing him in to press a hungry kiss to his cheek, his glasses bumping Morse’s temple until Morse’s long hands cupped his face, holding him steady for Morse to find his mouth.

Thank heaven that the tall hedge of his driveway screened the car. The touch of their mouths was like a match to kindling, and DeBryn tipped his head and kissed Morse firmly, parting his lips and licking into Morse’s mouth as Morse cupped his nape and returned DeBryn’s kisses with equal passion. Morse’s hands vanished briefly; there was a click, on the edge of hearing, and a moment later Morse’s seatbelt slithered over his chest and Morse shifted in his seat, turning to face DeBryn and leaning into him.

Recklessly, DeBryn’s hand tightened on Morse’s thigh before sliding further up and Morse murmured against DeBryn’s mouth, encouraging, parting his knees slightly, until DeBryn reached the top of his thigh and slid his hand inwards to find Morse already aroused.

‘Oh,’ DeBryn said, knocked breathless by desire, rubbing his fingers over the firm length of Morse’s erection.

‘Mm.’ Morse’s hand dropped into his lap, covering DeBryn’s, pushing fingertips under his jacket and shirt to stroke the sensitive skin on the inside of DeBryn’s wrist. ‘Yes please.’

DeBryn pulled away, with a last lush bite to Morse’s soft mouth, dragging his hand away from the inviting tilt of Morse’s hips.

‘Get in that house,’ he ordered gruffly, ‘before I do something extremely ill-advised to you right here in the car.’

Morse’s breath shuddered but he opened the door obediently and made for the front door, standing back to let DeBryn unlock it before crowding close behind him, his hands sliding up under the back of DeBryn’s jacket.

No sooner had DeBryn closed the door behind him than Morse was on him, pushing close for kisses, and DeBryn bore it for a while – Morse’s tongue insistent against his mouth, a knee pushing between his own – before rallying and pushing Morse off him, manhandling him to turn them and press Morse back against the wall of the dark hallway.

It was rougher than DeBryn usually permitted himself to be, but from the way Morse stared down at him, breath short, this didn’t seem to be a problem, and DeBryn cupped Morse’s nape and drew his head down for kisses. Slow kisses, all breath and lips and tongue, full of promise for the rest of the night. His other hand splayed over Morse’s firm chest, his flat stomach, until DeBryn dipped lower to cup the heavy bulge in Morse’s trousers and Morse’s knees quivered beneath him, his eyelashes fluttering.

‘Upstairs,’ DeBryn bit out, after a short consideration of whether to pull Morse’s trousers down and suck him off right there in the hallway. ‘Now.’

With no more than that Morse unpeeled himself from the wall and made for the stairs, unusually biddable, and DeBryn took a moment to appreciate his long legs, the curve of his arse so temptingly half-hidden by the hang of his suit jacket, before following.

Upstairs Morse was half-out of his clothes before DeBryn had turned down the bed and switched on the bedside lamp, and paused with his shirt half-off to fumble at DeBryn’s shirtfront, his loosened cuffs flopping at his wrists.

In no time at all Morse had undone DeBryn’s cuffs and buttons – setting DeBryn’s cufflinks aside on his chest of drawers with a charming care – and DeBryn barely had time for his familiar self-consciousness about the curve of his belly next to Morse’s slim waist before Morse had pushed his clothes off his shoulders, squirming out of his own shirt and pulling DeBryn towards the bed with only pleasure and anticipation in his face.

He really did belong in the Louvre, DeBryn thought, as Morse stretched out on the bed and watched with interest as DeBryn fumbled with his own trousers. Or the National Gallery, or the Prado; all broad shoulders and slim hips, lean muscle lightly defined under pale skin. DeBryn’s eyes wandered over him. Save that, of course, with that mouth – lips parted with interest, ready for a kiss or a smile – and his arousal flushed and heavy between his legs, he was warm, living flesh and not cold marble.

‘Come on,’ Morse exclaimed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to sit upright and reach for DeBryn. ‘You’re taking an age, come on.’

He took over the task of loosening DeBryn’s trousers and, once he had shoved them down and off, Morse tugged DeBryn down onto the bed, mouth finding DeBryn’s for more hungry kisses.

So much warm skin. Everywhere DeBryn rested his hands was on muscle and bone, firm under soft skin, and he splayed his fingers greedily and stroked as much of Morse as he could reach, making Morse arch and murmur with pleasure under his touch. This was much better than groping each other in the car: stretching out and kissing on a flat surface with no clothes in the way, and DeBryn sank into Morse’s kisses greedily, pressing close, pushing a knee between Morse’s thighs and his arousal flaring when Morse tipped onto his back, parting his legs to accommodate it.

‘Here.’ Morse broke away from their kisses to mutter breathlessly into DeBryn’s ear. ‘Like this, here.’

Morse’s hands were firm on his hips, gripping and pulling, and DeBryn let Morse tug him over to lie on top of him, Morse’s knees spreading automatically until DeBryn lay between his legs, stomach to stomach.

‘Like this,’ Morse murmured to him again, tilting his chin up to claim more kisses, smiling at him wickedly. ‘Here.’

He reached down between their bodies, curling his hands around both of their erections and squeezing lightly, and DeBryn groaned through his teeth and braced himself on one arm to reach over to the drawer of the nightstand, for the pot of Vaseline he kept for personal use. He dropped it on the bed next to Morse, making him jump a little at the press of cold glass against his waist, and Morse’s next kiss held a tiny nip of reproof.

DeBryn cupped his hand under Morse’s nape to kiss him, dizzy with want, and when Morse reached down to grip his arse and pull him closer he groaned against Morse’s smile. The next instant Morse’s hands left him, reaching for the small jar, and DeBryn kissed Morse’s throat, drinking in the scents of shaving cream and aftershave, unable to watch Morse digging a smear out of the jar. 

This was Morse in rare playful mood, quick to smile and to tease. Prompted perhaps by the thrill of a successful concert, and DeBryn kissed his cheek, his throat, and murmured his pleasure when Morse gripped their erections in his fist and began to stroke them.

Pleasure seared through DeBryn at the tight circle of Morse’s fist, the slide of Morse’s cock against his own, and the laughter died from Morse’s face as he tilted his head back to moan. DeBryn rested his forehead against Morse’s shoulder and thrust into Morse’s grip, encouraged by Morse’s gasps and the heavy drag of his hand along DeBryn’s spine. Morse’s hand reached the small of DeBryn’s back and rested there, grinding in a circle that made DeBryn curse through his teeth, pleasure winding tighter in his groin. And then Morse rubbed his thumb firmly over the tip of his arousal and DeBryn cried out, his mouth hard against Morse’s shoulder and his cock jerking in Morse’s fist, wet heat spreading between their stomachs.

Morse followed a bare moment later, his gasps fracturing into moans as he arched up into his fist, and DeBryn pressed his lips to Morse’s temple until his hand fell away and he gripped DeBryn’s hip, panting for breath.

For a while Morse seemed content to lie there, a leg curled around DeBryn’s hips and hands stroking idly down his back. DeBryn’s spine was slick with sweat, and Morse’s gentle fingertips drew circling patterns over wet skin as DeBryn nosed at Morse’s collar bone, the delicate flutter of his pulse, until Morse stirred beneath him.

Doubtless he was heavy, and DeBryn’s face warmed as he quickly moved off to one side, ungainly as he untangled himself from Morse to let the chap breathe, give him some space. Yet it seemed Morse didn’t want space; DeBryn had no sooner retreated than Morse was following, curling warmly against DeBryn and resting his head on DeBryn’s pillow, settling himself like a cat.

For a moment DeBryn hesitated, oddly shy despite – or perhaps because of – their recent intimacy, their mingled sweat drying on their bodies, and his hands hovered uselessly above Morse’s skin. Until Morse rubbed his thumb meditatively along DeBryn’s sternum and DeBryn breathed a sigh, slowly working his arm under Morse’s neck to curl around his shoulders and draw him close. There was the faintest mark on Morse’s shoulder, a lingering trace of the apex of DeBryn’s pleasure moments ago and DeBryn touched it with soft fingers, driven half by vague embarrassment, half by a peculiar, possessive satisfaction.

‘Do you want–’ DeBryn was rough, as though he had been shouting, and he cleared his throat and tried again, touching Morse’s stomach gently, skirting the edges of the debauched mess they had made. ‘I’ll fetch a damp flannel, if you want one.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Or... something to drink. Tea.’ A ridiculous offering, but at that moment DeBryn was weak with post-coital bliss and an odd gratitude; he would have offered the fellow anything in the world. ‘I could make tea, if you care for some.’

An odd snuffling noise from Morse that sounded a lot like laughter. A shift in the long body lying so easily against his. ‘Nothing, thanks.’

DeBryn laid his palm flat against Morse’s chest, enchanted anew at the body’s delicate architecture as Morse’s ribs lifted in a slow sigh. It sounded full of a satisfaction drawn up from his very toes, and as he shifted to rub his cheek lazily against DeBryn’s shoulder, DeBryn cupped his hand over Morse’s nape, fingers feathering through the soft hair that curled so readily around their tips, as though in recognition.

Like this Morse was soft, open in a way he never otherwise was. DeBryn could hardly stop touching him, barely bothering to pretend he wasn’t outright petting Morse like a cat, as Morse sighed again and settled a leg comfortably across DeBryn’s thighs.

DeBryn fully expected Morse to fall asleep. He looked more than halfway there already, but Morse’s fingers moved slowly over his chest, down over his belly to find the milk-pale skin over DeBryn’s hipbone that never saw daylight. He rubbed a finger idly through the mess smeared there, and DeBryn watched him draw the pad of his finger inwards and down until he brushed through coarse brown hair and lightly against the base of DeBryn’s soft penis, rousing a ticklish shiver from DeBryn that was equal parts satiation and the ghost of future arousal.

‘Did you...’ Morse was quiet, a little rough from sex. ‘Did you like it, then?’

DeBryn lifted his eyes, meeting Morse’s sleepy gaze. The memories were enough to make his cock twitch faintly, even spent as he was, and he bit his lip, his face warming. After a long silence he got out: ‘I should have thought it was fairly obvious I did.’

Embarrassment made his words come out rather more sharply than intended; he had meant to sound teasing and instead merely sounded curt. But really, Morse wasn’t usually given to asking such damn foolish questions.

‘I... well.’ Morse shifted, bracing an elbow under himself to prop his head on his hand and look down at DeBryn. He arched his eyebrows wickedly, his blue eyes flashing with puckish mischief. ‘I actually meant the concert. And the drink. Not...’ He shrugged expressively, as best he could lying down like that, slanting a pointed glance at the mess smeared between them. ‘Not after. I sort of took that as read.’

Morse’s eyes were soft, his wide mouth relaxed and tilting up in amusement, and DeBryn’s blush deepened. ‘Oh.’

Morse did smile then, his tousled hair and his mirth making him look younger, closer to his actual age than he usually appeared. DeBryn scrambled to retrieve his dignity. ‘Yes, I did. Thank you. Music was lovely. Beautiful setting too.’ Morse was still looking at him, expectant, and DeBryn reached awkwardly for more. ‘Singing was... delightful.’

This drew an outright smirk from Morse, and he leaned in to kiss DeBryn’s mouth. It was a gentle, sated thing, and DeBryn cupped Morse’s jaw and rubbed his thumb distractedly against the faintest gossamer rasp of stubble, until Morse lay back down. This time it was to rest his head on DeBryn’s shoulder and DeBryn closed his eyes, his heart skipping, and rested his cheek against Morse’s head.

Perhaps the fellow had just wanted a familiar face in the audience. Perhaps he had thought DeBryn may enjoy it; DeBryn was well aware that his record collection – sufficiently diverse by most standards – would be found wanting when set against Morse’s exacting tastes. Perhaps he had just wanted a bedmate for the night. 

It seemed rather a lot of trouble to go to for a mere tumble in the sheets he could have had for the asking, yet there was little to be gained by dwelling on the ways of Morse. The man could be contrary and taciturn as a cat when the mood was on him, and DeBryn consciously loosened his covetous hold as Morse scuffled against him, reaching over to turn out the light and tugging the crumpled blankets up over them before settling himself once more: warm and heavy and rather lovely.

Live in the present, that was what he ought to do. Launch himself on every wave, and find his eternity in each moment. Only fools stood on their island of opportunities and looked toward another land.

Morse sighed, his breath warm against DeBryn’s throat, his muscles loosening to sprawl more comfortably against DeBryn, and DeBryn half-turned his face into Morse’s hair and inhaled the scent of him, aching to hold him tighter, afraid to in case he woke him and made him move away. 

_There is no other land._ The words rose to DeBryn’s lips but he swallowed them back silently. Instead he closed his eyes and determinedly appreciated Morse’s sleepy warmth. No use to fret about it. And useless to consider what the morrow might bring.

_There is no other life but this._

An admirable sentiment. It was just a shame he had never been terribly fond of Thoreau.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set around the events of Nocturne (and hence contains some mentions of death of a child - caveat lector, if this is upsetting for you)

It was a perfect summer’s afternoon. The light streamed through the French windows and into the dining room, heavy with that golden quality it had at the end of July, before the sultry dog days of August. The clematis just outside the window was in full flower and, more prosaically, the England team were in the World Cup final today; DeBryn may not follow football but even he hadn’t been able to escape updates on the team’s fortunes over the past week.

A final in which they were not only playing but, astonishingly, seemed to be in with a chance of winning, judging by the shouts on the edge of hearing. One of the neighbours must have dragged their television out into their garden.

Reasons enough to be cheerful, in short. None of which explained by why DeBryn was not watching the match, nor out in his garden enjoying the sights and scents of summer, nor reading the new Agatha Christie he had treated himself to a fortnight ago.

Instead he slumped in the armchair in the dining room, his gaze fixed vacantly on a shaft of golden sunlight creeping across the carpet. It was only a few shades paler than the glass of brandy he clutched and, as the dust motes twirled silently in the sunbeam, he lifted his hand mechanically and drank deeply, closing his eyes. When he could swallow no more he lowered the glass and caught his breath, coughing slightly at the warmth racing down to his stomach that nearly succeeding in cutting though the icy grief lodged in his chest.

What a wretchedly awful week. There had been the post-mortem of Terence Black that morning; a simple enough matter and yet, despite his scorn for physiognomy and all such pseudosciences, there had been something profoundly unsettling about the man’s face. Perhaps it was simply the knowledge of what he had done, his connection to – here DeBryn removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, gulping again at his brandy – the last person to lie on that particular table as the recipient of his professional expertise. Little Maud Ashenden.

She had been small. So very small, even for her age, her face peaceful as though asleep and a half-healed cut on her knee from some childish misadventure. It had required all his resources of self-discipline and detachment to get the job done.

Faye had been small for her age too.

DeBryn had loved her from the first; even before her birth, from the moment he was told he would have a younger sister, he had adored the idea of her. And if he hadn’t already felt all the protective responsibility of being her big brother, he would have felt it from the sight of her blonde head that only came up to his chest.

She had been skinny – they all had, by the end of war – and fond of flowers and animals and wild places. Afterwards, her name had seemed an oddly prescient choice: like a fairy child, come to live among the world of men for a time before stealing away back to her own people.

She had had flowers in her hair when he had gone to wake her that morning, a few daisies still clinging stubbornly in her unravelling plaits from the previous day’s adventures. In her fair hair, and tucked into the pocket of yesterday’s pinafore, discarded carelessly over the back of a chair on her way to bed.

There was a flash of ginger fur outside the French windows, and DeBryn looked up from his empty glass. The neighbours’ cat was back, walking boldly up to the doors and sniffing at them. DeBryn sighed and got up to chase it away, but at the last moment – prompted by memories of Faye, her soft-heartedness – he found himself sliding the door open a crack, just wide enough for a small body to slip through, if it chose.

The cat fled at the movement of the door and DeBryn left it open and walked through to the living room to pour himself more brandy before returning to the dining room. He left the bottle in the living room. He didn’t dare bring it through here with him.

It was all part of the job. Yet knowing that didn’t make it easier, and nor had the slowly growing knowledge over the past week that he was likely to be called upon to autopsy a child. He had been following the news of the missing schoolgirl on the wireless and in the papers, like most of the rest of Oxford, and in his case the hope for a successful resolution had fervent, mingled as it had been with apprehension.

For he knew, better than most, that the longer a missing child stayed missing, the greater the chance that there would be a body at the end of the search. The knowledge had stayed with him since the disappearance of Bunty Glossop, cold dread squeezing his stomach each time the telephone shrilled, impossible to ignore or forget, and when the call from the school finally came it hadn’t been any easier for being so long anticipated.

Against such misery, Morse was an afterthought. Almost unworthy of consideration; DeBryn really oughtn’t to mind as much as he did. Theirs wasn’t that sort of arrangement. They were two fellows –a kind person might even call them friends – who shared similar urges, and who chose to relieve them together when they grew too insistent. Foolish to feel so betrayed, never mind that Morse had seemed keen these past weeks; if he had forgotten his place then he could blame no-one but himself.

For shortly after the concert at Baidley there had been another invitation, this one to a Debussy recital where Morse had sat next to him and DeBryn had stolen glances at him throughout the evening. And the week before last, when Morse had come to collect the Henderson report just before lunch. DeBryn’s veiled hints hadn’t been enough to send him on his way and at last, when DeBryn pulled on his jacket and picked up his keys, Morse had simply fallen into step beside him. 

And a Saturday lunch at a riverside pub – suggested by Morse – that had led to a digestif back at Morse’s digs, that had led almost straight to bed, in the middle of the afternoon. The sun had been bright around the edges of the hastily drawn curtains and Morse’s hands had been clever, his kisses hungry; he had set a record playing and DeBryn had tugged him away from the record player to strip and tumble him into his unmade bed, the pair of them unable to stop kissing as they wriggled out of clothes, Morse’s face alive with laughter and devilry. 

Doors had slammed and muffled conversations were distantly audible as Morse’s lodgers went about their thoroughly respectable weekend activities, as DeBryn had squirmed down the bed and pressed his face into Morse’s hip to inhale the musky scent of male arousal, his blood singing with desire. He squeezed Morse’s thighs and pressed them apart. If sound carried into Morse’s flat then the reverse was presumably true, and while one of Morse’s hands gripped DeBryn’s naked shoulders the other bunched a pillow tightly against his face, leaving DeBryn with only the rhythmic hitch of Morse’s stomach muscles and the quiver of his thighs as cues to his pleasure. Morse didn’t seem to find the enforced silence discouraging, though. Quite the reverse, and the stifled cry that escaped him at the end had hopefully been lost in the swelling aria. DeBryn had barely finished swallowing, wiping his mouth on his wrist, before Morse sat up, all flushed lips and dishevelled hair, and pressed him down onto his back to reciprocate, and staying silent hadn’t been nearly as simple as Morse had made it look.

For days afterwards the memory had heated DeBryn’s blood, and at the worst possible moments too. At his next visit to the station he had been unable to look at Morse. His bright blue eyes, the serious curve to that lower lip that DeBryn had nipped at in desire, Morse’s strong hands digging into DeBryn’s back as DeBryn stroked his cock, stiff and blood-hot in his palm... DeBryn’s summary as he handed over the report had been addressed solely to Thursday and Jakes, with a warmth in his face that, please God, they had ascribed to the stuffiness of the station baking in the heatwave.

No, he couldn’t be imagining things, Morse had gone out of his way to seek DeBryn out. Concerts, and meals, and visits to the mortuary for minor questions for which he could easily have picked up the phone, leaving books in his wake like offerings and filching DeBryn’s copy of the Oxford Mail. It had felt... well, it had felt oddly like being courted. Not that DeBryn would know what that was like.

And here was proof positive, in fact, that not only did DeBryn not know what he was speaking of, he had misread Morse entirely. For when Morse had turned up at the mortuary earlier that week, with a nasty graze on his back that needed tending, DeBryn had patched him up and then hesitated.

The graze had doubtless been painful but hardly to a degree that necessitated medical attention. In fact a cynical man might have called it a mere pretext and DeBryn, emboldened, ventured to invite the chap over for dinner on Friday evening. Morse had accepted, with a shy smile and a slanted look that had made DeBryn giddy with the ghosts of possibilities.

Back in his dining room, dusk falling, DeBryn slid his glasses off and closed his eyes against the last shafts of sunlight, massaging the heel of his hand into his temple to dispel the nascent headache.

Save that he had been wrong. He had misread it, somehow, for Morse had rung on Friday afternoon to cancel their dinner, an odd note in his voice. DeBryn hadn’t thought anything of it; Lord knew the job of detective had its demands, and he had stoutly quashed his disappointment and instead rang a colleague to find out which pub they had chosen to watch the football match. His interest in the sport was feeble at best, but best to have a distraction from his spoiled evening plans.

But then, bored by the play and drawn by some sixth sense, his attention had wandered across the pub and found, of all people, Morse. Tucked in a corner, sharing a table with an attractive girl, wearing a freshly ironed shirt and listening attentively as she talked, and DeBryn’s breath had stopped, as though he had inhaled a double-lungful of cold river water. He seemed to step outside of himself, noting distantly that he felt no surprise, only a curious sense of fatalism, and when Morse’s attention strayed from the girl a moment later, DeBryn met Morse’s appalled look with a distantly courteous nod, as befitted professional acquaintances.

His brandy glass was empty again.

DeBryn pushed himself out of the chair, stumbling a little this time, and made his way through to the living room. He slopped another measure into his glass, rather more generous than the previous ones, blaming his unsteadiness on the fact of having left his glasses on the armchair.

All on Morse’s terms. Of course it was. DeBryn had only himself to blame if he had forgotten his place and overstepped, never mind that Morse had certainly seemed to be trying to make him forget.

Back in the dining room there was an orange smudge by the open French windows that – when DeBryn fumbled his glasses back onto his nose – resolved itself into the cat.

‘Hullo.’ DeBryn rested his head against the wing of the chair, watching dull-eyed as it sniffed at the door and stepped delicately through the gap.

Faye had liked cats. That was why he had tiptoed into her room to wake her that morning, he had told them later. At the hospital. The neighbour’s cat had just had kittens, and he had thought they could go over to see them before school.

Softly, noiselessly, the cat slunk a little further into the room, nose and whiskers twitching furiously. The sun was sinking behind the trees at the side of the garden, the room falling into shadow, and DeBryn lifted his glass to catch the last rays of light, turning the brandy to liquid gold before he tilted the glass to his mouth again.

The doorbell shrilled loudly and DeBryn jumped, spilling a few drops down his shirtfront before steadying himself. The cat froze, but when the doorbell sounded again and DeBryn swore viciously it fled, courage at an end for the day.

He could just ignore it. Not answer and hope the caller went away. Save that if it was who he suspected then the fellow wouldn’t desist until he received an answer, not with the car standing incriminatingly in the driveway and advertising DeBryn’s presence, and when the knocking started DeBryn swore again and heaved himself out of his chair.

When the front door opened to reveal Morse on the doorstep DeBryn sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. ‘Morse.’

‘Max.’ Morse’s face was slightly flushed from the sun and he had loosened his jacket. ‘I half-thought you’d gone out for a walk, the house looked empty.’

‘Not tonight, Morse.’ His very bones weighed heavy, weary to his soul of the man’s contrary ways. ‘Not in the mood.’

He swung the front door shut. Or at least, began to: Morse reached out quickly and caught the edge of it, not going so far as to jam his foot in the gap in true police constable fashion, but looking very much as though he were considering it.

‘I’m not here for–’ Morse ducked his head, eyes flickering down to inspect the grey stone of DeBryn’s doorstep. ‘I... look, can I come in?’

He pushed lightly at the door, but DeBryn held firm, fingers tightening around the edge of the sun-warmed wood. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find me rather poor company this evening.’

Morse lifted his head, but his attention was caught by something before his eyes rose to DeBryn’s face.

‘I know,’ he said quietly, and DeBryn followed Morse’s gaze to the half-full glass of brandy DeBryn held. ‘That’s why I want to come in.’

Damn it all to hell. If only he had had the presence of mind to set it down before answering the door, because now Morse was pushing open the door and stepping inside, closing it gently behind himself before turning to look at DeBryn. It was an uncomfortably assessing gaze, and it left DeBryn acutely conscious of the wet patch on his shirtfront, his missing tie and open collar, and the alcohol on his breath.

‘You seemed a bit...’ Morse shifted his weight, gesturing at DeBryn vaguely. ‘When I saw you earlier, I thought you looked a bit off-colour. So I wanted to come and see you.’

DeBryn frowned, until the memory rose. The post-mortem of Terence Black this morning. It already felt days ago.

‘I’m fine.’ DeBryn tried to inject assurance into his voice. ‘It’s merely been rather a long week, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

He looked down and saw, for the first time, that Morse carried a brown paper bag, the top carefully folded down over the contents.

‘Have you eaten?’ Morse asked.

‘No.’ DeBryn hadn’t had much of an appetite after finishing with Mr Black. And then when he got home and opened the brandy, food had become a minor consideration.

‘Then let me make you dinner.’

DeBryn frowned, uncomprehending. ‘What?’

Morse hefted the paper bag, a small smile flickering across his mouth. ‘I may not be much of a cook, but even I know how to boil an egg.’

The headache was back, throbbing worse than before, and DeBryn ground his hand against his temple and closed his eyes. ‘Morse–’

‘Please.’ Morse’s fingers brushed DeBryn’s forearm, sliding down and across his wrist until they settled on the back of his hand. ‘You’re not yourself.’

‘Your esteemed colleagues might call that an improvement.’ DeBryn tightened his grip warningly on his glass when Morse tried to coax it away.

‘I don’t.’ Morse’s voice was soft, unhappy, and he relented in his attempt to take the tumbler, instead touching DeBryn’s knuckles before gripping his elbow warmly. ‘Come on.’

DeBryn let Morse steer him, guiding him into the dim living room and pushing him gently into one of the armchairs by the cold fireplace, before Morse went to draw the curtains. He clicked on a lamp and DeBryn blinked in the sudden light, until Morse gave a soft noise. DeBryn looked over at him, picking up the half-empty brandy bottle and examining the contents. Oh.

‘Help yourself.’ DeBryn waved an unsteady hand. He had picked it up on his way home, badly in need of a drink – of several drinks – and unwilling to down expensive stuff as though it were water. He would make a poor host this evening, but if Morse was determined then so be it. ‘Glasses are in the kitchen. Although I warn you it’s only cheap stuff.’

But, unusually, Morse didn’t fetch a glass but merely set it back down carefully, his mouth tight. ‘I can see that.’

DeBryn closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the chair as Morse’s step left the living room and turned toward the kitchen. Let the chap do as he pleased, then. At that moment it was too much effort to puzzle him out and DeBryn drifted, listening with half an ear to the faint sounds of Morse in his kitchen, his headache pulsing sullenly in his temples.

He didn’t sleep. Or at least, he didn’t think he did, but a touch on his arm made him open his eyes, startled.

‘Here.’ Morse, down to his shirtsleeves, set a cup of tea on the table at DeBryn’s side. ‘Drink this.’

He straightened up but stood there, watching. DeBryn set down his glass and picked up the teacup, hoping that would satisfy him, but when Morse didn’t move DeBryn bent his head to inhale the fragrant steam of Darjeeling and sip at it.

‘Do you want to talk about... about whatever this is?’ Morse’s voice was gentle, as though approaching an injured animal.

‘No.’ The response was immediate and unequivocal. Perhaps bordering on rude – DeBryn stared determinedly down at his tea and caught the twitch of Morse’s shoulders out of the corner of his eyes. 

But Morse only murmured, ‘Alright then.’

That was enough, apparently. Morse retreated, and DeBryn sipped at his tea and stared at the empty fireplace, wrapped in thought and memories, part of him still up at Blythe Mount school and part of him lost, trapped miles away and years ago, at the bedside of a beloved sister who wouldn't wake no matter how he shook her shoulder and called her name.

A familiar step in the corridor and Morse returned, this time carrying a tray. A tray that – when he set it down across DeBryn’s lap – contained a soft-boiled egg and a piece of buttered toast. Morse had even gone to the trouble of cutting the top of the egg off.

‘I’m not quite in my dotage yet, I’m sure I could have managed to subdue a boiled egg,’ DeBryn said tartly. But when Morse made no reply DeBryn added, faintly abashed, ‘Thank you.’

He poked at the toast dispiritedly. He hadn’t the least appetite for it. Yet Morse had returned with a plate of toast for himself, and as he took a seat in the opposite armchair DeBryn picked up his spoon under Morse’s watchful gaze. In the absence of any real interest in the food, perhaps it would suffice merely to feign it.

The only sounds in the room were the small chimes of cutlery against plate, and the noises of Morse shifting in his chair. DeBryn bit and chewed mechanically, not tasting anything, until he looked up and found Morse still watching him, a faint frown lowering his brows, as though DeBryn were a riddle to be unpicked.

DeBryn had seen that look before, and it was disconcerting to have it turned on him rather than a corpse.

‘Morse...’ he said, warningly.

Immediately Morse dropped his eyes, contrite, but the next instant he was shifting in his chair again. ‘Can I put a record on?’

The idea almost made DeBryn cringe. A symphony, with all its crashing cymbals, or an opera full of dramatic climaxes, was the last thing he wanted in this soft space he had drawn around himself. But Morse saw his expression and gave a tentative smile.

‘Nothing too operatic.’ His hand made an aborted movement, as though he would reach across the gap to DeBryn.

‘If you must.’ DeBryn shrugged with ill grace. He had warned Morse he would be poor company this evening, yet even so there was a crawl of shame at the sight of his guest searching for a diversion to fill the silence between them.

The food on his plate had been uninteresting when warm; now cold, it was nauseating. The oily sheen on the toast, the stickiness of the egg yolk, and DeBryn gripped the tray and set it down on the floor by his chair, pushing it out of sight with his toes as Morse looked through the records shelved neatly on the bookcase.

The little he had consumed sat heavily in his stomach, an unyielding and greasy lump, and DeBryn abandoned his tea and took a drink of brandy, trying to chase the taste from his mouth.

A soft noise from Morse, a murmur of mingled recognition and approval, and then the whisper of a record pulled from its sleeve and the delicate click of the record player. DeBryn closed his eyes and rested his head against the chair, bracing himself for Morse’s selection as the first chords filled the room.

At first it was unfamiliar, but after a few bars memory stirred. Albinoni, the Adagio in G Minor. Of course. A collection of his more introspective pieces, bought some months ago on a whim, and now the gentle rise and fall of the music stole through the room, soft and insidious as smoke, and DeBryn drew a shaking breath as he listened.

The piece was slow, almost mournful. Not at all what DeBryn would have chosen, had he been asked to select something, and yet the knot in his chest loosened under its effect, dissolving, leaving in its wake exhaustion and a deep sorrow that weighed in all his limbs.

Sentimentality and empathy were luxuries his profession couldn’t afford, and generally he had no trouble keeping that resolution. But every now and then, when it was a young life that had been so abruptly cut short, snuffed out like a candle...

The clock ticked and the piece flowed into the next, and the one after, simultaneously soothing and magnifying the ache in his chest, bringing with it a curious desire to weep, and DeBryn drifted until a hand on his forearm made him startle.

‘It’s just me.’ Morse set his hand quickly against DeBryn’s, against the brandy that, embarrassingly, DeBryn was close to spilling over himself as his grip slackened. But at least this time Morse had more sense than to try to remove it. ‘Bed. You’re exhausted.’

His mouth was stale, his head groggy. Had he been sleeping already? Nodding off in his chair like a doddering old drunk; he ought to be embarrassed about that, but Morse’s hands were unhesitating on his arm, his elbow, urging him up out of the chair and towards the door. DeBryn let himself be steered, and Morse chivvied him upstairs and plied him with a large glass of water and aspirin for his pounding head, before reaching for DeBryn’s shirt buttons.

DeBryn roused himself.

‘Still not in the mood,’ he said, his words slurring with tiredness but his tone sharp, because Morse’s cheeks were pink as he plucked at DeBryn’s buttons. ‘And I won’t be in the mood tomorrow morning either, if you’re wondering.’

‘ _Max_.’ The pink on Morse’s face blazed into a full flush, the tips of his ears scarlet, and he dropped his hands as though burned. ‘I _know_. That’s not.’ He stepped back, waving a hand impatiently. ‘Just get into bed.’

DeBryn did so, pulling on his striped pyjamas as Morse fussed with the books on his bedroom bookcase, his back turned as though they weren’t intimately familiar with each other’s bodies by now, and only turning back at the rustle of sheets and blankets as DeBryn settled himself.

There. Now Morse would feel he had discharged whatever peculiar self-imposed duty had brought him here this evening, and go. But instead of making for the door, DeBryn watched in some confusion – squinting slightly, his glasses already folded neatly on the nightstand – as Morse bent to fumble with the laces of his shoes before heeling them off and approaching the bed.

‘Morse?’

Morse perched on top of the blankets, leaning against the headboard and stuffing a pillow behind his back, shuffling until DeBryn finally moved over to make space for him. He had a book in his hand.

‘Morse.’

There was no reply. Instead Morse flicked through the book, ruffling its pages as he searched. His cheeks were still pink, his hair rumpled and his shirt half-untucked, but his jaw was set determinedly and he stopped on a page. He cleared his throat.

‘On either side the river lie,’ he began, ‘long fields of barley and of rye–’

Ah. Tennyson. DeBryn closed his eyes and sighed. All quite unnecessary, of course. He ought to push Morse out of bed, tell him to put his shoes on and go home, that he had already discharged the duty of a... whatever they were to each other. That would be the sensible thing to do.

But Morse had a lovely voice, quiet and calm, and was obviously practised at reading aloud. The old words – that DeBryn had read enough times to know by heart – took on new life and meaning on his tongue and DeBryn, almost against his will, relaxed. Half-asleep already from the brandy, he listened silently and Morse’s gentle voice drew pictures on the inside of his eyelids: golden fields of barley as far as the eye could see, a cool green river running past an island of roses, and a pale harvest moon hanging in a velvet summer sky. 

When Morse got to the end there was a pause, a rustle of pages, and then he began again.

Somewhere, halfway through the third recitation, Camelot’s towers blurred into Oxford’s steeples, and DeBryn slept.

\----------

DeBryn woke to warmth. A delicious lassitude, that had taken root in his bones and left his muscles loose, and he sighed in groggy awareness that this was a deeper and more restful sleep than he had managed in some time.

The reason for his recent insomnia came to him almost at once, and he tensed. But hard on its heels came the memory of last night, and perhaps the reason he was so well-rested, and he stirred. His head and shoulders were braced against something warm and firm, something that yielded only slightly as he moved, and in lieu of being able to roll onto his back DeBryn had to move away before he could turn and look.

Morse was sitting up against the headboard, a book balanced on his drawn-up knees. In much the same position he had adopted last night, in fact; he might not have moved since DeBryn went to sleep, save that he had stripped down to his vest and pinched a pair of pyjama bottoms out of the chest of drawers. He looked down at DeBryn’s movement, traces of sleepy softness at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

When he spoke his voice was rough. ‘Morning.’

The book open in his lap, one long finger marking his place, was _The Hobbit_. Adventures and dwarves and quests had made it Faye’s favourite book, a fact DeBryn hadn’t fully allowed himself to acknowledge as he took it down from his bookcase last week. He had been searching for a distraction from the face of the missing schoolgirl staring wide-eyed from his morning paper, that had made his stomach knot in dread and caused him to offer up a silent prayer to a god he no longer believed in that he wouldn’t be required.

If Morse had any opinions on DeBryn’s rather juvenile taste in reading material he mercifully kept them to himself. He closed it, carefully preserving DeBryn’s bookmark in its position, and set it gently on the bedside table. ‘How did you sleep?’

In the morning light Morse’s eyes were the perfect blue-green of a summer sea.

‘Well,’ DeBryn said, unable to lie, not with Morse sitting so close and looking at him with those sleepy eyes, that gentle arch to his eyebrows. ‘And yourself?’

‘Mm. Very well.’ One side of Morse’s mouth tilted upwards and he stretched slightly. His calf bumped DeBryn’s hip and DeBryn had a flash of memory: half-rousing in the night to steady warmth along his right-hand side, and occasionally the comforting weight of a limb or two lying on him, pressing him back down into slumber.

Morse looked away, stretching over to the bedside table next to him, and returned cradling a teacup. He nodded at the bedside table behind DeBryn. ‘There’s tea there for you.’

DeBryn rolled away to look. And also, with a sudden flash of panic, to check the time, because if Morse had been up this long then surely DeBryn had overslept, and there would be explanations required at work. But his worried inspection of his alarm clock showed half an hour before his alarm was set to sound, and he sighed.

‘Morse.’

DeBryn couldn’t have this conversation lying down, the imbalance nipped at him sharply. He fumbled to sit up, leaning against the headboard and fussing with his pillow. His glasses were on the bedside table; unnecessary at this proximity, but DeBryn felt more himself with them perched on his nose.

Morse, watching all this, raised his eyebrows. ‘Max?’

Enough dissembling. Last night he had been too consumed by old pain to address this new injury, but the morning dawned fresh and clear, and he was himself again. ‘What are you doing here?’

Fortunately Morse seemed to have caught DeBryn’s mood, or at least his tone of voice, for he dropped his gaze to address his teacup. ‘When you saw me in the pub the other night. That wasn’t a date.’

At this stage in life DeBryn had resigned himself to the fact that he would always be a fool for a beautiful pair of eyes, or a clever mind. But that didn’t mean he was an idiot. ‘Oh really?’

‘It wasn’t,’ Morse insisted, darting a glance at him.

‘Rather overdressed for a quiet game of dominoes, wasn’t she?’ DeBryn picked up his tea, recalling the girl’s glossy dark hair and merry face. What he wouldn’t give for a shot of something stronger in his tea, to get him through this conversation. ‘As I believe I’ve said before, what you do is–’

‘It was strange,’ Morse interrupted.

DeBryn gripped his teacup and glared at him, seriously considering shoving him out of bed and onto the floor. His voice was tight with warning. ‘Morse, you are pushing the boundaries of our acquaintance in the extreme if you imagine I want to hear how you found your evening with her.’

‘ _Constable_ Strange. Jim,’ Morse said quickly. ‘It was his idea. He... look, he had a date with this girl, and the girl wanted to bring a friend. So Jim asked me if I’d make up a four. As a favour. And he’s a friend and I... well.’ Bared by his vest, Morse’s freckled shoulders moved in a helpless shrug. ‘I couldn’t exactly tell him I already had a date, could I.’

DeBryn remained silent and Morse inched closer, the blanket sliding down around his knees. ‘And I rang you to cancel but I was at my desk, I couldn’t explain... and then I saw you in the pub and God, you just looked–’

‘Yes, I remember,’ DeBryn cut him off, not wanting to hear how much of his feelings had been on his face for the world to read. He had always fancied himself fairly inscrutable, even stoic, but he had a heart like any other man. ‘Well. Alright then.’

His chest felt lighter, but he allowed himself a bare moment’s relief before drinking a mouthful of tea and sternly gathering his thoughts. If it wasn’t that girl then it would be another, and DeBryn closed his eyes briefly. Men of his sort had had these arrangements since time immemorial, but that didn’t make this any easier to bear. He forced himself to speak.

‘All the same, as I believe I’ve said before, you’ve no need to explain yourself to me. Whatever we’re doing here, it’s not that sort of thing.’

DeBryn was reminding himself as much as Morse, trying to imprint the words on his rebellious brain that insisted Morse’s lanky frame and soft kisses belonged to DeBryn alone. But where DeBryn tried to bear up under his discontentment – it didn’t do to be ungrateful for the little he had, not when so many men got by with nothing at all – Morse was looking downright irritable.

‘Isn’t it?’

DeBryn squinted at him, confused. How the devil could the fellow pretend to be unhappy with this when he was the one pursuing others? And not for the first time; hadn’t there been that dark-haired secretary, last autumn, during that case at the factory. And Lord knew how many others in between.

‘You know full well it’s not,’ DeBryn said, watching Morse’s face. ‘As you made quite clear.’

Morse looked at him in astonishment, his mouth opening slightly. ‘ _I_ did?’

‘You know you did.’

A frown. ‘When?’

DeBryn swallowed at the new touch to the old wound. ‘Last October, during that case at the factory, you remember the one. At the very least I should imagine you remember that girl you were so keen on. The dark-haired one.’

‘Alice.’ With Morse in just his vest, the tide of pink sweeping his face was visible down his throat to his chest. ‘Her name was Alice. Vexin.’

‘Yes. That one.’ DeBryn swallowed another mouthful of tea, trying to wash away the memory of his upset, still sharp as though it had happened last week rather than last year.

‘Actually, I don’t remember making anything clear to you.’ Morse’s voice was clipped. ‘I remember being told by Inspector Thursday I ought to take Alice out for a drink to ask her about the Brooms, and then barely saying two words to you about it before you told me you didn’t give a damn as you “had no expectations of me”.’

Morse’s voice shifted slightly on the last words; doubtless intended to parody his own, and DeBryn snapped, ‘Whereupon you went off and slept with her.’

‘Yes.’ Morse set his cup down, hard enough that some tea slopped out and into the saucer. ‘But only because you–’

‘Well then.’ DeBryn set his own teacup down, with rather more care, and gripped the sheet and blankets, readying himself to get up. ‘There’s no more to say on the matter.’

‘ _Max_.’ Morse grabbed at DeBryn’s leg, anchoring him. ‘There’s a very great deal more to say. Yes, I– She and I–’ Morse ducked his head, exhaling sharply. ‘After what you said, I was annoyed. Angry, even. With you.’

Well that really was the limit. What on earth did _Morse_ have to be angry about?

‘I may not be a detective,’ DeBryn said, weighing his words coldly, wanting them to pierce Morse’s flesh like barbs, ‘but I had rather guessed you might be from the tone of our interactions before you– And then when you took yourself off to Witney for months without... without a telephone call, not even a letter to let me know you were alright, you didn’t even bother to– For God’s sake, Morse, it was _Witney_ , not bloody Land’s End–’

He was losing all his usual eloquence, all his careful shields of wit and sarcasm falling apart in his hands at the memory of those long months of silence, as the world gradually woke from its winter sleep and DeBryn had thought of Morse almost every day, missing him, and yet from Morse had come nothing.

‘Look.’ Morse’s hand tightened on DeBryn’s thigh, as though to choke off DeBryn’s flow of words. ‘I wasn’t in touch because I didn’t... I didn’t think you would want to hear from me.’

For a moment DeBryn could only stare at him, sure he must have misheard. And then: ‘You didn’t think I would want to hear from you?’

Morse looked down at his lap, not meeting DeBryn’s eyes.

‘You didn’t think I would want to hear from you.’ The words were like sharp stones, lodging in his throat and almost choking him. ‘After patching you up, after allowing you waltz off God knows where, having left a couple of pints of blood on that living room floor, with that wound having had only the very roughest of running repairs... You didn’t think perhaps I might like to know you hadn’t keeled over from septicaemia, or been left permanently lame – neither of which would have been more than you deserved, by the way – or–’

‘I’m sorry, alright?’ Morse met his eyes, cutting him off in mid-flow. ‘I’m sorry.’

DeBryn hadn’t finished, not by a long chalk. But Morse’s apology soothed his temper, eased an ache he hadn’t realised had festered so deeply until it ceased to sting. He exhaled a measured breath.

‘Apology accepted, I suppose.’

Morse’s hand relaxed on DeBryn’s thigh, but he didn’t let go.

‘And also... I was angry.’ Morse broke off, inhaling deeply, his chest rising under the thin cotton of his vest. ‘I was annoyed because–’ Morse’s hand unclamped from his thigh, and DeBryn watched at first in confusion and then mute surprise as Morse reached into DeBryn’s lap. He curled his fingers and thumb around DeBryn’s wrist, ‘–because I thought you _did_ have expectations. Of me. I wanted you to. And I wanted you to... to _mind_. And then when you said you didn’t, that I didn’t matter...’

Morse’s hand was warm, his palm sweat-damp and clutching awkwardly at him, and DeBryn silently turned his wrist until Morse loosened his grip. Some sort of response was presumably called for, and DeBryn leaned back against the headboard. ‘I see.’

Morse looked at him sharply. ‘Do you?’

DeBryn made no reply, his mind skipping rapidly back over the past months, reviewing Morse’s behaviour in a new light. The invitations to concerts or the pub, the books, even the casual and persistent appropriation of his own wretched newspapers. Perhaps his suspicions, his cautious hopes, hadn’t been too far off the mark.

Morse’s gaze was still fixed on him, awaiting an answer, but it was suddenly difficult to meet it. Instead, DeBryn took Morse’s hand. ‘Yes, I think so.’

Morse sighed, rubbing his nape and ruffling his hair distractedly.

‘I wanted to go after you when I saw you leave,’ Morse said, looking down at their clasped hands. ‘Desperately – you looked so unhappy. But I could hardly run off halfway through the evening.’

Unable to turn and leave the pub just after arriving, DeBryn had only stayed for a single drink with his colleagues, the bare minimum for politeness, before pleading tiredness and escaping.

‘I came to the house, afterwards,’ Morse continued, now looking at him, curiosity plain in his voice and face, ‘but it was dark, and your car wasn’t there.’

DeBryn had actually returned to the mortuary, needing the distraction of paperwork; the case alone had been enough to throw him off balance without Morse adding this new insult to injury. He had finished the miserable evening falling asleep at his desk, an open bottle of Scotch next to him. He hadn’t a notion of telling Morse that, however, despite the inviting tilt of his head and the edges of the unvoiced question in the air between them.

‘Yes. Well.’ DeBryn swallowed and Morse fell silent, expectant. But words died unuttered on his tongue; whatever he had expected as an explanation for Morse’s presence last night, it hadn’t been this. He needed time and solitude to think on it; words and explanations were all very well but they were, after all, intangible things. Yet he couldn’t let Morse think him unfeeling and he struggled quietly until Morse twitched his fingers gently and began to withdraw.

‘Well then.’ Not looking at DeBryn, Morse picked up his watch from the bedside table and began to fasten it round his wrist. ‘I suppose we ought to get up.’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn reached out to shut off his alarm clock before it could sound, and the words rose unbidden and unrehearsed to his lips. ‘Morse... do you have any siblings?’

Morse paused in the act of swinging his legs out of bed, glancing at DeBryn in surprise.

‘Yes,’ he said, looking at DeBryn closely. ‘I’ve a younger sister.’

‘I see.’ DeBryn couldn’t meet Morse’s eyes; instead he pulled lightly at the hem on the edge of the sheet. ‘So did I.’

Only one word, a change of tense that would have gone unremarked by most others, but a shift in the quality of the silence showed Morse had understood.

‘Oh Max.’ Morse pulled his legs back into bed, twisting to lean his shoulder against DeBryn’s, a silent buttress of sympathy. ‘When?’

‘I was a boy.’ DeBryn turned his hand palm-up when Morse reached for it, letting Morse lace their fingers together and grip, strength seeming to flow from the warm kiss of Morse’s palm against his own. ‘Twelve. She was seven.’

‘How?’

DeBryn stared unseeingly at his lap. ‘Died in her sleep. I was the one who found her – I went to wake her one morning before school, and she... she was gone.’

Morse was silent, but DeBryn answered the question he had to be thinking, the same one that no-one had been able to answer at the time. ‘We never knew what caused it – the pathologist found nothing wrong.’ He shrugged. ‘I suspect now it was some sort of congenital heart defect, but back then no-one could say for certain.’ 

‘I see.’

Morse frowned, and DeBryn had no doubt he was working out the actual and the apparent ages of Maud Ashenden, small for her age as she was, putting the puzzle pieces together in that clever brain of his.

At last he murmured, ‘What a bloody awful week you must have had.’

DeBryn choked out a raw laugh. ‘Well. As I said, with adults one takes the rough with the smooth, but a child...’

Tightness stopped his throat, reaching through the years separating him from his distraught twelve-year-old self to choke off his words, and thankfully Morse didn’t press him. Instead Morse shifted, and the next instant there was a gentle pressure against his temple; Morse’s lips were dry and slightly rough, but DeBryn closed his eyes under the slight easing of the ache in his chest.

‘Meet me for lunch.’ Morse’s tone brooked no argument. ‘That place by the river we tried the other week, and you said you liked. Bring the crossword, if you want, or your book, we don’t have to talk. But just come. Sit out in the sun for a bit. Will you?’

DeBryn nodded, looking down to their clasped hands as another kiss landed on his temple.

‘Good.’ Morse was silent a moment longer, but at last squeezed DeBryn’s hand briefly before releasing it. ‘Come on, then. Once more into the breach.’

With that he flung back the sheets and blankets and stood, stretching slightly. The borrowed pyjama bottoms rode low on his slim hips and a flicker of interest stirred in DeBryn’s stomach at the flash of pale skin in the small of his back, but he tamped it down as Morse padded off to the bathroom.

It was a lot to take in, and as DeBryn gulped down his lukewarm tea he was already anticipating that evening when he could sit with a quiet glass of something and think it over. He hadn’t intended to tell Morse about Faye; he hadn’t mentioned her to anyone other than his mother and brothers for many years now, and even they hardly spoke of her.

Yet his heart was lighter for having done so, and a deep breath came more easily than it had last night. And when Morse returned to the bedroom, catching DeBryn’s eye and giving him a shy smile, an answering smile rose to DeBryn’s lips with no effort at all.

Despite the overt distance he would have to maintain from Morse today – across the autopsy table, a careful separation between them when they shared a table at lunch, perhaps even dropping into the CID office and ignoring Morse tucked in the corner waging his daily battle with the typewriter – DeBryn caught Morse watching him in the mirror, all unobtrusive concern, and thought he had never felt closer.


	4. Chapter 4

Summer stretched late that year. DeBryn had harvested the apples from the tree but still it kept its leaves, and the plants in the garden still bloomed as though it were the height of summer and not late September, with the first nip of autumn to be felt in the early morning and late evenings.

The day found DeBryn once again ensconced in his dining room armchair with the French windows partly open, but the circumstances on this occasion were as different as it was possible to be. This time his morning cup of tea stood at his elbow, and instead of losing himself in old memories he was absorbed in the new issue of _The Journal of Clinical Pathology_ , his mind only occasionally wandering, and even then it was only a matter of yards from where he sat: his still-occupied bed upstairs.

The past weeks had been filled with invitations: concerts, and after-work pints, and even a few lunches. Evening outings invariably led to Morse coming back to DeBryn’s house for a nightcap and staying overnight, and even when meeting for lunch Morse contrived to touch him somehow. A brush of fingers as he handed DeBryn his pint, or a handshake in greeting that went on just a little too long and involved the subtle stroke of fingertips across the sensitive skin of DeBryn’s inner wrist, sending warmth flushing through him even as he strove to maintain his outward expression.

DeBryn rubbed his mouth, smiling to himself.

It had been a stroke of luck, both of them having Sunday off, and as soon as he realised DeBryn had extended an invitation for Sunday lunch. His careful indifference had belied his racing heart; the memory of their misunderstanding was still raw, but Morse had accepted at once, with one of his rare smiles.

Even so, it had nearly been cancelled. A difficult kidnapping that had kept Thursday’s team running around for days, until it was touch-and-go whether Morse would be putting in a Sunday shift. Last night DeBryn had been restless at his books, unable to settle when any moment he expected the shrill of the telephone bell with an apologetic Morse on the end of the line. Instead it had been the shrill of the doorbell, and at an hour far beyond a social call.

‘Hullo,’ Morse had said, when DeBryn opened the front door. He listed to one side, leaning against the wall as though his legs wouldn’t hold him. ‘I know you said tomorrow but–’ he paused, tugging at his ear, looking slightly embarrassed, ‘my landlady’s having a party, and I thought you might not mind if I...’

‘Of course not, old chap.’ DeBryn had swung the door wider. ‘Say no more.’

Morse had been carrying an overnight bag, and he set it down to strip off his coat.

‘Case is finished.’ He hung his mackintosh on DeBryn’s hat stand, next to DeBryn’s own, and caught DeBryn’s eye. ‘We found the child. It was the uncle after all.’ He yawned. ‘Thursday said I’m not to come in tomorrow.’

One could hardly blame the inspector; Morse didn’t look as though he would be much use even if he did manage to stagger into the station. DeBryn had seen healthier skin tone on his patients.

‘Make yourself at home.’ DeBryn had waved a hand in the direction of the living room with its Scotch, its record player. ‘You know where everything is.’

It was even odds which Morse would go for first. DeBryn had turned away to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen and paused, head tilted in surprise, at the dragging thump of Morse’s feet on the stairs. He followed bare minutes later, curiosity pulling him along, and found Morse’s clothes hung over the back of the chair and Morse himself already half-asleep under the covers, sprawled across the bed with his face pressed into DeBryn’s pillow.

‘Hmm.’ Morse stretched, rolling onto his side. He blinked sleepily, catching sight of DeBryn. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I’d not be much company this evening.’

‘Mind?’ DeBryn repeated stupidly. ‘I... no. No, of course not.’

The sight rendered him queerly breathless: Morse’s head on his own pillow, Morse’s watch discarded onto one side of the bed, next to the book Morse had left there the last time he spent the night. Almost as though he lived there.

DeBryn turned away, pulling the door closed and descending the stairs. It was obviously needed; Lord knew how many hours Morse had been awake by that point. Yet he wasn’t too deeply asleep to stir when DeBryn came to bed, turning to him and burying his flushed face against DeBryn’s nape with an animal’s instinctive search for warmth and comfort.

A flash of orange drew his eye, tugging him out of his memories and back to the present. The cat was skulking along the edge of the border, and DeBryn watched in vague disapproval. Wretched thing. He still hadn’t worked out which of the neighbours owned it – Mrs Elliott next door had denied all knowledge – but surely they could keep the thing in their own garden.

But the next instant there came the thump of feet on the stairs and DeBryn smiled, his mood lifting at once. Speaking of itinerant ginger creatures wont to roam from their own homes...

‘Max.’ Morse appeared in the doorway, rumpled and heavy-eyed with sleep. He had donned his clothes from last night, but with his shirt untucked and only half-buttoned, and his unshaven jaw, he looked a thoroughly disreputable sort. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep so late.’

DeBryn leaned back in his chair – ‘It seems you needed it,’ – and watched in amusement as Morse rubbed his eyes, stretching so that his shirt rode up to reveal a sliver of pale stomach.

‘Mm.’ Morse walked into the room, bare feet and pale ankles enough of a distraction that DeBryn nearly startled when Morse ignored the other armchair to fold to the floor at his feet, sitting tailor-fashion and leaning against his legs.

Morse’s back was warm through his thin shirt and DeBryn’s summer trousers, his head tilting to rest against DeBryn’s knee, and DeBryn froze before planting his feet more firmly, bracing his shins against Morse’s weight. Hardly daring to breathe, he inched his hand forward to touch his fingertips to the unruly licks of hair.

‘What are you reading?’ Morse twisted, looking up at DeBryn before being distracted by something on the side table.

DeBryn followed his gaze to the teacup, with its barely touched tea. The fellow must be thirsty after his long sleep; DeBryn mutely offered the cup to Morse, who lifted it delicately out of his hand and drank.

‘The Journal of Clinical Pathology,’ DeBryn replied absently, distracted by Morse’s slim throat working above his opened shirt collar, and only realised his mistake when Morse lowered the cup and grimaced.

DeBryn’s mouth twitched. ‘Sorry.’ Daring, he brushed his fingers lightly over Morse’s hair again, his stomach giving an odd leap when Morse leaned his head against his knee once more, tilting into his caressing fingers. ‘I was reading Yeats when you arrived last night, though.’

‘Mm. Innisfree?’

‘Of course.’ Morse had kept hold of his teacup. DeBryn thought briefly, longingly, of a fresh cup out of the plump teapot in the kitchen, but that would have involved moving, and dislodging the warm head resting heavy against his leg, the tousled mess curling around his fingers soft as the brush of a linnet’s wings.

Morse didn’t seem overly inclined to conversation so soon after waking, and DeBryn took up his journal and attempted to continue with his article. But the words danced under his eyes, all his awareness on the faint expansion and contraction of Morse’s ribcage against his leg, and when Morse tilted the cup back, draining the last of DeBryn’s tea, DeBryn gave up on the article and watched as Morse stretched sinuously.

‘There’s breakfast in the kitchen,’ DeBryn offered, in lieu of staring at the fellow like a moonstruck calf. ‘Bread, and fruit, and so on.’ He glanced ruefully down at his empty cup. A new packet of Lapsang, and he had barely got to taste any of it. ‘More tea. And then lunch at one, I thought.’

Morse made an agreeable noise, still not inclined to conversation, before rising from his cross-legged position with a supple ease DeBryn envied, and making not for the kitchen but the stairs. Alone, DeBryn closed his journal and looked out at his garden, his leg and hand tingling under the phantom pressure, while the floorboards creaked overhead and the bathroom door squeaked distantly on its hinges.

As the shower pattered, on the edge of hearing, DeBryn set aside his journal. Useless to try and concentrate on it now, when half his mind was upstairs in the bathroom, all too aware of Morse naked in his shower, water streaming over his sleek torso. DeBryn swallowed, his mouth dry with longing.

It was tempting to join him. Yet Morse hadn’t invited him, hadn’t run his hand along DeBryn’s thigh as he stood, or slanted one of his subtle come-hither looks at him, and instead DeBryn made his way to the kitchen, pouring himself a new cup of tea before starting to prepare the chicken for their lunch. He worked silently, only vaguely aware of the noises of the plumbing cutting off and the tread of footsteps crossing the upstairs landing, until the prickle at his nape made him turn to find Morse watching him from the kitchen doorway, damp around the edges but much more alert.

‘Hullo.’ DeBryn glanced at him from under his eyelashes, unable to look away from his newly shaved jaw and the warm flush of clean skin. He really was a terrifically attractive fellow.

‘I brought some WD40,’ Morse said.

He hefted a blue and yellow can and DeBryn blinked at the non sequitur.

‘Alright?’ He cocked his head. ‘I believe wine is more usual, when one is accepting a lunch invitation.’

‘No, I mean. I brought wine too.’ Morse walked into the kitchen and set a bottle down on the table, looking rather flustered. ‘You like red, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ DeBryn agreed, bemused, waiting to see where this was going.

‘But when we went for lunch the other week, you were complaining that your bathroom door was creaking.’ Morse looked down, shifting his weight. ‘I thought you might not have had time to see to it.’

‘Oh.’ DeBryn looked back down at the worktop, touched. He recalled that conversation; at the time he hadn’t even thought Morse was listening. ‘No, I haven’t. What with one thing and another.’

‘Right. Well then, if you want, I could just...’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn ducked his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Yes please.’

His chest felt oddly warm, giddy, and when Morse returned to the kitchen DeBryn had to busy himself in a bid to appear composed when Morse said, off-hand, ‘There, that’s done.’

‘Thank you,’ DeBryn murmured. ‘And if you still felt like making yourself useful...’ He pushed a bunch of carrots at him, trailing crumbs of soil across the worktop.

Morse smelled faintly of shaving cream as he stepped past DeBryn to get to the sink and DeBryn nipped his lip, his cheeks and forehead warming with the intense urge to press his face to Morse’s throat and inhale deeply.

They worked in silence, Morse proving surprisingly competent but he stole glances at DeBryn until DeBryn tilted his head, raising his eyebrows enquiringly. Morse’s cheeks pinked.

‘You seem to know what you’re doing,’ he offered, watching DeBryn settle the chicken in its roasting tray.

‘Yes.’ DeBryn crouched to light the oven. ‘One of the perils – or perhaps advantages – of being the youngest of five brothers, I’m afraid. I was usually the one pushed into the kitchen to help our mother.’ He hesitated, memory catching at his throat, still sharp-edged despite the years: himself and Faye, given leftover scraps of pastry to make decorations for the top of a pie, her small fingers doing their fumbling best to copy his older, more dextrous ones. And then after, the silence in the kitchen and the empty space at his side. ‘That is. After... well.’

Thank goodness he had no need to explain himself, Morse’s glance brimmed with compassion but aloud he only said, ‘Five?’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn rose from his crouch, glancing at Morse and smiling a little at his surprise. ‘We’re a rather large family. You’ve no other siblings apart from your sister, then?’

‘Joyce,’ Morse replied, and DeBryn tucked the information away in his mind as he slid the chicken into the oven. ‘No.’

He seemed disinclined to offer anything further. In fact his mouth was tensing at the thought of home; perhaps his sister was struggling in the aftermath of their father’s death, how clumsy of him to have reminded Morse of a painful subject.

‘Here.’ DeBryn stepped over to Morse, shoulders brushing and nudging him gently away from the half-peeled carrots. ‘I can finish these. But you could perhaps put a record on. And there’s white wine in the fridge, if you’d like an aperitif. Or we could open your red.’

It was the right thing to say: either the offered control of the record player or wine lightened Morse’s expression, and in short order the overture to _La Traviata_ floated through the house as Morse fished in the kitchen drawer for the corkscrew. Verdi, then. DeBryn smiled as he finished the carrots and opened the paper bag of potatoes, and a long arm snaked around to deposit a glass of wine within easy reach on the countertop.

A moment later Morse’s lips touched his nape lightly, and DeBryn almost dropped the potato he held. It was fleeting, the merest brush of pressure, but it was enough for his body to flush warm in surprised desire.

The gentle scrape of a chair, and DeBryn glanced over his shoulder as Morse settled himself at the kitchen table, unfolding yesterday’s paper and clicking a biro in anticipation. As though that brief kiss had been nothing extraordinary.

Looking at him folded into a chair, it was on the tip of DeBryn’s tongue to offer the living room sofa, the dining room armchairs, or even the bench in the garden; those kitchen chairs were second-hand and nearly falling apart, purchased more for utility than comfort. But as DeBryn drew breath to speak Morse looked up, caught his eye, and smiled.

A small, private smile, that softened his face and made him look younger, and the words died in DeBryn’s mouth. If it made the fellow happy to perch on DeBryn’s old chairs and watch him work then far be it from DeBryn to chase him away.

Morse braced an elbow on the table, one hand rumpling his hair distractedly as he perused the crossword. DeBryn prided himself on completing two-thirds of it, but Morse worked his way steadily down the list of clues, only occasionally pausing to mull over a tricky answer and count letters under his breath, and DeBryn shook his head in mingled amusement and irritation.

He wasn’t the only one carrying out subtle observation, though. As DeBryn moved about the kitchen, occasionally humming a snatch of music under his breath, Morse’s eyes followed him, with a smile hovering half-formed on his lips.

The quiet intimacy ought to have made him happy, yet DeBryn worried at his lower lip.

Here, in this peaceful space encompassing the two of them, it was easy to forget there was a world outside the front door. And yet there was, with all its attendant problems, and he couldn’t delay the necessary conversation indefinitely.

Wrapped in thought, he opened the oven door to check on the chicken, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. When he closed it, satisfied, he straightened up to find himself the object of rapt attention from Morse.

‘What?’

Morse shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just... I can’t remember the last time I had a roast chicken.’

Looking at Morse’s slim waist, the hint of collar bone visible through his open shirt collar, DeBryn could well believe it. But there was something about Morse’s tone, something behind the mere gustatory anticipation that made DeBryn look at him over the tops of his glasses, faintly suspicious.

‘Morse.’

‘Yes?’ Morse lifted his gaze from the oven door to DeBryn.

‘You realise I am a Home Office pathologist of some standing. And, though I say it myself, not inconsiderable reputation within my field. A field that requires a wide and detailed knowledge not only of how living bodies work, but also dead ones.’

Morse grimaced faintly. ‘Yes.’

‘Yet despite all this, despite years of frankly gruelling medical school, and despite the post-mortems I regularly conduct for you to the fullest extent of my abilities, you seem more impressed with my ability to roast a chicken.’

‘Oh.’ Morse shifted in his chair, a guilty look flashing briefly across his features. ‘I. No, that’s not...’

The pink of Morse’s cheeks wasn’t entirely due to his discomfiture; the kitchen was almost stiflingly warm and DeBryn moved to open the window and the door to the back garden, his mouth curling in amusement. By now it was clear he would never be able to impress Morse with his professional expertise; it was good to know there was one skill that could win him admiration.

A faint breeze stirred the warm air of the kitchen and DeBryn sat at the table, bringing his wine with him. Morse tilted his head, pushing the crossword at him questioningly, but DeBryn ignored it.

‘Morse,’ he began instead, unsure how to broach the topic that had been nagging off and on at the back of his mind for days now. ‘Do you remember Chertsey Road? The sudden death that turned out to be simply a weak heart?’ 

Morse looked at him, a line between his brows, his mouth serious. The angle of his shoulders and head highlighted the tendon in his throat, the same one DeBryn had kissed just last week, the pair of them tangled sated and drowsing in Morse’s bed.

‘What of it?’ Morse reached for his wine.

His easy, loose-limbed sprawl had vanished, and DeBryn quailed inwardly but continued. ‘Do you remember what you said?’

Morse shrugged. ‘Something about the medication, and I wanted to know whether there were any signs of a struggle, and–’

‘Not that. I mean when I was on the other side of the room, and you wanted my attention. Do you remember what you said?’

Morse squinted at him, his frown deepening into mild annoyance.

‘Was it important?’ His tone showed all too clearly what he thought.

‘Max.’ DeBryn folded his hands together tightly, knuckles whitening, and persevered. ‘You called me Max.’

Thank God there had only been Thursday there, who had looked sharply at Morse and then at DeBryn, his dark gaze far too assessing. DeBryn had mustered his best imitation of offended dignity as he answered and Thursday had turned away, seemingly satisfied, but far more went on behind the man’s impassive expression than he showed, and even the mere memory set DeBryn’s stomach squirming uneasily.

‘Oh.’ Morse looked down, gripping the stem of his wineglass and turning it slowly, but the hunch to his shoulders betraying his awareness of his error.

‘You.’ Now it was DeBryn’s turn to look away, worrying at his thumbnail. He felt a heel for breaking the peace of their Sunday morning, but it had to be said. ‘Morse, you can’t afford that sort of mistake.’

Morse’s shoulders twitched. ‘No-one heard.’

DeBryn bit his lip. ‘Thursday did.’

‘I.’ Morse paused, tapping his pen on the paper. ‘He’s alright.’

It lacked conviction, and DeBryn retorted sharply. ‘He’s not alright. For God’s sake, Morse, he’s a serving police officer.’

‘I know.’ Morse glared at him, cheeks flushing and expression thunderous. ‘I just.’ He shrugged. ‘I was tired. I forgot.’

God, how to explain? Morse couldn’t be as painfully naive as he sometimes sounded, and DeBryn scrubbed a hand through his close-cropped hair.

‘You can’t afford to forget,’ he said tightly. ‘What if it had been Jakes? Or DI Chard? They may not listen to opera, Morse, but they’re not idiots–’

‘ _Alright_.’ Morse’s voice was loud, almost angry, and DeBryn subsided, his heart sinking.

He’d made a mess of it. Morse knocked back his wine like a man wanting something stronger before rising abruptly to stalk over to the bottle on the counter, while DeBryn watched the rigid line of his back and fretted at his shirt cuff. Strange how the quality of this silence was so different to that which had gone before; Verdi still rolled softly through the room but the air between them was brittle and tense where moments before it had been warm and easy, with Morse curled a touch possessively around his crossword.

DeBryn pursed his lips unhappily, his mouth full of things he didn’t know how to say.

_I care about you. I worry about you. If something happened to you because of what we’re doing I’d never forgive myself. If I were a better man I’d push you away, tell you to settle down with a nice girl who’d look after you, but I’ve never claimed not to be selfish._

Easier to busy himself with work and, although lunch didn’t need attention for some time yet, DeBryn rose and silently assembled the necessary ingredients for gravy. He couldn’t look at Morse, still standing by the wine bottle, one hand gripping the neck tightly and his lips pressed together. He looked as though he were contemplating leaving, in fact, and DeBryn stared down at the worktop blindly, expecting at any moment to hear Morse’s step receding, with some trite excuse of needing to go into the station.

But instead there was the gentle splash of wine into a glass, and Morse’s footsteps making their way back to the kitchen chair.

Was that it, then? Were they just to pretend nothing had been said? That DeBryn’s concerns were unfounded? Was it–

‘Oh hullo.’ Morse’s voice held a lilt of surprise. ‘Who’s this?’

DeBryn looked at Morse to find him staring at the open door to the garden. Or more precisely, and judging from the angle of his gaze, the patch of floor just inside the door, and DeBryn stepped away so that the counter wasn’t blocking his view, with a curious premonition of what he would see.

Sure enough the cat sat there, tail curled neatly around its forefeet and ears pricked expectantly. DeBryn seized a tea towel, ready to flick and shoo the thing away, but Morse was already standing.

‘I didn’t know you had a cat.’

‘I don’t,’ DeBryn said helplessly, watching Morse crouch down beside the animal, extending a hand. ‘It belongs to one of the neighbours.’

The cat sniffed Morse’s hand, with all the gravity men usually gave to handshakes, before permitting Morse to stroke its head.

‘Are you sure?’ Morse rubbed lightly behind its ears and sleeked a hand along the small back. ‘He’s very thin. If he has an owner they’re not feeding him much. And look.’ Morse’s fingers slid under the cat’s jaw, coaxing it up to show the band of bare skin around its neck. ‘No collar.’

DeBryn shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose he must have lost it.’

‘Or had it removed.’ Morse sounded weary of the world, with its small, everyday unkindnesses. 

‘No, I’m sure it’s a working animal.’ Behind Morse’s back, DeBryn glared at the cat leaning its head into Morse’s hand. ‘Feeds itself on mice, that sort of thing.’

‘Then he’s not very good at it.’ But at least Morse was smiling now, amused as the cat rubbed its cheek against his hand. His long fingers curled to tickle the cat’s chin, and as a low rumble began on the edge of hearing DeBryn gripped the edge of the counter. It was beneath his dignity to envy a cat.

Morse looked up, a familiar thoughtful expression stealing over his face. ‘I suppose we could always...’

DeBryn cocked his head. ‘What?’

‘Well...’ Morse’s gaze flickered to the oven door, with the rich smell of roasting chicken hanging in the air, and DeBryn saw what he intended.

‘No,’ he said at once, trying to put a stop to that line of thought right away.

‘We could spare it, though.’

‘It’s not about sparing it, it’s...’ DeBryn waved a hand, trying to convey his feelings about the bloody cat, sitting there as though it owned the place. ‘I don’t want to encourage it.’

Morse made no reply to this, merely looked at DeBryn with eyes that were wide and guileless and so very blue.

‘ _No_ ,’ DeBryn repeated loudly, doubly harried by twin reproachful gazes, one blue and the other – considerably closer to the ground – bright green. He turned away, fussing with the curled top of the paper bag of flour. ‘Morse, no. It would be inappropriate.’

An audible sigh from Morse as he rose, but no further attempt at persuasion and guilt nibbled at DeBryn.

‘If you feed every stray that passes then you’re never rid of them,’ DeBryn said, aware even as he spoke of how weak an excuse it sounded.

Still no reply from Morse, and DeBryn sighed to himself. Now he looked heartless, in addition to having badgered Morse into annoyance over a mistake Morse still didn’t seem to accord the gravity it warranted. So much for a relaxed Sunday lunch.

A footstep behind him, and before DeBryn could turn Morse’s hands were on his waist, firm and steady as Morse stood behind him. Not quite close enough to touch, but enough for the warmth of his body to loosen the tension in DeBryn’s spine and DeBryn inhaled him, all soap and clean cotton and – beneath it – the scent of his warm skin.

‘But the quality of mercy is not strained,’ Morse murmured, his chest solid when DeBryn weakened and leaned back against him. ‘It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath.’ Morse’s arms slid around DeBryn’s waist and he clasped his hands over DeBryn’s stomach, tugging gently and encouraging DeBryn to rest more firmly against him. ‘It is twice blest; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes. It is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown.'

DeBryn’s hands found their way to Morse’s forearms, and he listened to the low rumble of Morse’s voice in his ear, even as the miserable uncertainty in his stomach eased under the gentle pressure of Morse’s cheek against the crown of his head.

‘Does quoting Shakespeare often win arguments for you?’ DeBryn asked, tart even as he gripped Morse’s forearms like an offered lifeline. 

Morse’s low hum of amusement bore a passing resemblance to the cat’s purr.

‘Not as often as I’d like.’ Morse shifted, turning his forearms to catch hold of DeBryn’s hands, tangling their fingers together. ‘Is that what we’re having, then?’

How to answer that?

‘I don’t know,’ DeBryn said slowly, uneasy all over again, acutely aware of his own lack of experience at this sort of thing. He looked down at Morse’s long fingers laced through his.

Morse gave a quiet, considering sort of noise, and let go of DeBryn’s hands to grip his hips, urging him to turn. DeBryn let himself be turned, and Morse braced his hands on the counter’s edge and leaned in, dipping his head even as DeBryn lifted his chin.

His mouth was gentle, and DeBryn settled his hands on Morse’s hips and yielded willingly to his kisses. Desire – never very far from his thoughts when alone with Morse – bloomed sharply in his stomach, and DeBryn slid his hands higher, stroking hungrily at thin cotton warm from the lithe body beneath it, opening his mouth readily when Morse bit softly at his lower lip.

It had been a long week. On the few occasions DeBryn had seen him, Morse had seemed too wrapped up in the case to have much time even for sleep or food, let alone any other appetites. And then last night and this morning he had been so plainly exhausted that keeping him from his rest had been unthinkable; DeBryn had taken his morning cup of tea back to bed and ended up watching Morse sleep, his cares temporarily smoothed from his flushed face, wanting to touch but loathe to rouse him when he slept so peacefully.

But now Morse kissed him with slow deliberation until DeBryn’s world turned giddily, desire heating hi s face as he slid his hands around to stroke the length of Morse’s back. They might have time to go upstairs before lunch, and with Morse warm and eager, and smelling delicious, DeBryn swallowed a groan of hunger, his hands curling briefly to grip sweaty fistfuls of Morse’s shirt.

Morse’s hands, in contrast, stayed chastely above DeBryn’s waist, one rising to brush his jaw lightly, and DeBryn drew back, licking his lip and trying to control the anticipation fluttering in his chest. Belatedly he loosened his grip, consciously stopping himself from mauling Morse’s clean shirt and smoothing it flat to his back. 

A flush sat across the tops of Morse’s cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, and he bit his lip. He cocked his head, looking searchingly into DeBryn’s face, and DeBryn drew a slow breath through his nose, his pulse skipping at the heady scent of Morse’s skin, and smoothed Morse’s rumpled shirt front until Morse shifted his gaze to peer over DeBryn’s shoulder.

‘Are you done here?’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn said at once. Despite himself his stomach leaped, heart pounding so hard Morse could surely feel it where their chests were pressed together, before honesty made him add, ‘Although only for half an hour.’

‘Hmm.’ Morse looked at him, an unreadable glance. ‘Then we’ve a bit of time.’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn looked down at his own hands, fingers smoothing obsessively over the weave of Morse’s shirtfront.

It was more than enough time. DeBryn was already most of the way hard, and the idea of stripping clothes from Morse’s freshly showered skin was enough to get him hot and bothered.

‘We might...’ DeBryn swallowed and closed his eyes as Morse’s fingers toyed with his open collar, brushing his throat. ‘We could always...’

Yet not ten minutes ago they had been at odds with each other, with Morse snapping at him, and DeBryn despaired inwardly at his own cowardice as the suggestion died unvoiced and instead he offered lamely, ‘There’s the garden. We might sit outside for a while, if you like?’

He opened his eyes to Morse’s smile. ‘The garden it is, then. Come on.’

A last kiss, brushed over the corner of DeBryn’s mouth, before Morse stepped out of his arms to gather crossword, pen, and wineglasses, and DeBryn took a moment to breath steadily, swallowing back his desire before following. He made his way via the living room to collect last year’s Christmas gift from Victor – a book of famous gardens through history – before stepping out through the French windows into the garden, blinking a little in the bright sunshine and making his way to the bench.

Morse had parked himself slightly to one side of the middle, a space open at his left-hand side and their wineglasses on the seat to his right, and when DeBryn sat down then Morse – without lifting his attention from the crossword – shuffled along until he pressed warmly against DeBryn from shoulders to knees. He was solid, and warm, and DeBryn leaned against him. The next instant Morse shifted, lifting his hand to scratch his nape and his hand brushing DeBryn’s thigh in an absent caress, and DeBryn glanced at Morse’s impassive profile before opening his gardens book at the chapter devoted to Alexander Pope. The ghost of arousal still simmered under his skin from their kiss in the kitchen, but this also held a certain charm.

Despite himself, the sunshine and Morse’s undemanding presence contrived to relax DeBryn so thoroughly that when the timer buzzed in the kitchen Morse had to grip his shoulder to get his attention.

‘Mm?’ DeBryn blinked at Morse, coming out of the world of the little Twickenham villa, its cool grotto and the lap of the Thames at its banks, to look at Morse’s bright eyes, their blue all the more vivid against the dark hedge behind him.

‘The time.’ Morse tilted his head towards the house, the sun picking out copper streaks in his hair. ‘Don’t you need to...’

‘Oh. Yes, I do.’ DeBryn closed his book and set it aside, and Morse followed him when he stood.

In the kitchen Morse proved himself a surprisingly capable assistant, handing DeBryn utensils almost before he thought to ask for them, and finding plates and cutlery as though he had done this dozens of times before. When in reality, DeBryn thought to himself, gaze lingering over the man’s long back as he stretched up to search through a cupboard, he could only recall a couple of occasions where they had eaten a meal together at his house. More usually, if they could snatch time alone together, they ended up–

DeBryn’s face warmed and he turned back to the pans on the stove, hoping they would explain his flush.

The chicken came out of the oven plump and browned and perfect. DeBryn carved generous servings, and then dropped scraps of meat onto an old saucer before pushing it at Morse, all done with the best imitation of annoyance he could muster, and without meeting Morse’s eyes to see the subtle amusement there.

The carrots were rather underdone, but Morse didn’t seem to care – or even notice – and ate with a better appetite than he had shown for any of their pub lunches. And when they had finished, Morse propelled DeBryn gently but firmly away from the sink of dirty dishes with a hand in the small of his back.

‘I may not be much of a cook–’ Morse was already putting the kettle on the hob and getting out the jar of coffee ‘–but I do know how to make coffee and wash up, at least.’

DeBryn hesitated. It seemed an awful lot of work for one person, but Morse nudged him again. ‘Go on. I’ll bring it out to you.’

And when DeBryn had spread a rug under the apple tree and settled himself with his book and a couple of cushions, it was rather lovely to sit there and listen to the small sounds drifting through the kitchen window.

Perhaps – he cautiously allowed himself to think, after Morse had stepped out briefly to place a cup of coffee at his side – this was what domesticity felt like. This casual intimacy, this sharing of chores. He stuffed a cushion between his back and the sun-warmed bark of the trunk and leaned back, closing his eyes, his book discarded on his lap. The warmth of the sun was soporific, and DeBryn drowsed until a faint but nagging feeling of being watched made him open his eyes.

The cat was perched on the bench, watching DeBryn with unblinking eyes, and DeBryn frowned. He ought to get up and shoo it away, but he was warm and comfortable and disinclined to move, and even when the cat licked a paw and began to wash its face, its ears only twitched at DeBryn’s disapproving tut.

Morse smiled at the sight when he stepped out into the garden a few minutes later. His sleeves were still rolled up, his hands reddened from the hot water and full with coffee and a book of his own, and he stepped onto the rug and sank gracefully to sit tailor-fashion.

He looked out at the garden, sipping at his coffee, and DeBryn picked up his own cup, studying Morse covertly.

It was plain to see Morse had done this before. This ease of being in another person’s space, sharing meals and household tasks and absent caresses as each party went about their day; it was suddenly, blazingly obvious that Morse had previously lived with at least one of his lovers. Whereas he himself... well, there had never been anyone, had there. And he couldn’t even pretend it was entirely due to his preferences; there had simply never been anyone quite like this fellow in his life before, such a curious mix of warm affection and prickly reserve, that inspired this degree of feeling in him, and whose quiet company was so oddly restful. Not at all how he had imagined a domestic arrangement to be, when he had contemplated it in idle moments over the years.

Setting aside his coffee cup, Morse rubbed at his nape. ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

His voice was slow. Lulled by the sun’s warmth, perhaps, and DeBryn rested his head back against the tree and looked at him. ‘Oh yes?’

‘My landlady...’ Morse bit his lip briefly, glancing at DeBryn before his gaze slid away to look out over the garden. ‘She wasn’t actually having a party last night. I just wanted to sleep here.’

Over on the bench the cat settled itself on the warm wood, front paws curled tidily under its chest and eyes closing, and DeBryn smiled. ‘That’s fine. You know you’re welcome any time.’

Morse ducked his head, looking pleased, and DeBryn ventured, oddly breathless: ‘I could even... I think I have a spare key somewhere. If you want it.’

A lie, but it wouldn’t cost much to get one cut, and the dip of Morse’s lashes and his shy smile were worth a king’s ransom.

‘Likewise.’ Morse picked up his coffee cup and turned it in his hands, not meeting DeBryn’s gaze. ‘You know. If you ever... need to. Or want to.’

‘Indeed.’ What a fine time for a pair of intelligent men to lose their combined facility with the English language, but DeBryn closed his eyes against the happiness bubbling in his chest and tipped his face up to the sun dappling through the leaves.

Next to him there was the quiet rustle of Morse stretching out on the blanket, and DeBryn opened his eyes to see Morse abstracting the cushion propped against DeBryn’s side to wedge beneath his head.

The sparrows chattered in the hedge, a lone bee hovering among the last of the year’s flowers, and DeBryn watched it, achingly happy. Perhaps one didn’t need to cross the Irish Sea, when paradise could be found in a suburban garden.

Morse stirred, his hand brushing along DeBryn’s knee, and DeBryn looked down at him. Morse tilted his head questioningly towards DeBryn, and DeBryn was momentarily captivated by the dusting of summer freckles across his nose and forehead until Morse spoke. ‘You’re very quiet. What are you thinking about?’

Caught. He could lie, but it seemed a poor recompense for Morse’s shy confession, offered so trustingly, and DeBryn admitted, ‘You.’

Morse’s eyebrows twitched, a gentle invitation to speak further.

‘I...’ DeBryn worried briefly at the corner of his lip. But sitting here – warmed by the sun and their shared meal, with their permissions newly granted to each other, and Morse lying so very close – lent him courage to say what had left him tongue-tied earlier. DeBryn reached out and dared to rest a hand on Morse’s chest. ‘I worry about you. About this, given the job you do.’

‘Oh.’ It felt like uprooting some small plant and crushing it in his fist to see Morse’s lightheartedness fade, replaced by his habitual weary resignation. ‘I know.’ Morse rolled his head back up to stare at the swaying leaves. ‘I forgot. I’ll be more careful in future.’

He lifted DeBryn’s hand from chest and brushed his lips over the back of it, almost penitent. ‘Max.’

Morse’s fingers explored the hollows between DeBryn’s knuckles, turning DeBryn’s hand over to trace the lines on his palm and the veins hidden just below the skin. He examined DeBryn’s nails – clipped short due to the rigours of his work – and his writer’s callus, lingering over his forefinger, with its small white scar from an overhasty moment with a scalpel.

‘Maxwell?’

What? Oh...

‘Maximilian, actually,’ DeBryn murmured, soothed by the peace of the day, and Morse’s gently inquisitive touch.

Morse lifted his gaze from DeBryn’s hand, his eyebrows quirked in delight. ‘Really?’

‘Mm. One presumes my mother had great plans for me.’ And his father had been a tremendous fan of Wagner, not that he planned to reveal that – or his middle names – without the influence of rather more alcohol than a modest half-bottle of wine. ‘Rather awkward at school, though, especially when war broke out. Germanic names rather fell out of fashion, hence Max.’

‘I see.’

Morse returned to his contemplation of DeBryn’s hand and DeBryn’s eyes drifted closed, his head resting against the tree trunk and Morse’s fingers gentle on his own. And then, when Morse eventually placed DeBryn’s hand back on his chest, he didn’t pick up his book but drew breath and spoke. ‘Endeavour.’

DeBryn blinked, suddenly wide awake. ‘Oh yes?’

Morse’s warrant card gave away the initial E, of course. But Morse had never volunteered any further information and DeBryn had never quite dared ask.

‘Yes. My mother named me. Quaker, you see. Virtue names.’

Slowly DeBryn shifted his hand to stroke Morse’s hair back off his forehead. How very appropriate for this man, who gave himself heart and soul to his work, who strove harder at it than anyone DeBryn had ever met.

Morse’s face was tipped up to the sky, with its clean lines of nose and jaw, and DeBryn nipped his lip cautiously. With Morse in such relaxed humour, how far might he be permitted to advance?

‘And what was her name?’

The question was as gentle as he knew how to be, and he was rewarded with a reply: ‘Constance.’

Morse caught DeBryn’s hand again, folding it between both of his own and resting them on his chest, and DeBryn rubbed his thumb lightly into Morse’s palm. ‘It’s a lovely name.’

One side of Morse’s mouth stirred. ‘She was a lovely person.’

DeBryn paused before murmuring, ‘You don’t care for your own name, though.’

It wasn’t really a question, and the pinch of Morse’s mouth was answer enough even without his muttered ‘No.’

‘What did she call you, then?’

Morse sighed, pulling absently at his ear, and resettled their clasped hands against his chest. ‘She used it. My name. I never told her I didn’t like it.’

‘I see.’

‘It felt...’ Morse stirred again, restless, and DeBryn curled his fingers into Morse’s palm, wanting to soothe him. ‘It would have felt like disappointing her somehow. And she’d had enough of that, after my father–’

Morse cut himself off. DeBryn looked at his upturned face, the frown that settled so easily on his brows, the lines that stress had carved at the corners of eyes and mouth. Like this it was easy to picture Morse as a boy: all wide blue eyes and clever brain, too serious, perceptive beyond his years.

‘He used it too. My father,’ Morse continued. ‘And Gwen.’

Now it was DeBryn’s turn to frown, staring absently at the rosemary by the kitchen door as he racked his brain and tried to recall whether Morse had ever mentioned a Gwen.

‘My stepmother.’ DeBryn glanced down to find Morse looking at him.

‘She never liked me much,’ Morse went on, with disarming frankness. ‘I went to live with them, after my mother–’ Morse paused briefly. ‘I’m sure I was extra work for her. An extra mouth to feed. Expense. Clothes, and shoes, and so on. More trouble than I was worth.’

DeBryn stayed silent, his heart contracting sharply in pity that Morse wouldn’t want. It didn’t sound much of a childhood.

‘But it’s just a name,’ Morse shrugged, looking away, his chest rising under DeBryn’s hand as he drew a deep breath. He let go of DeBryn’s hand, tucking his hands beneath his head and gazing up at the branches overhead. ‘It doesn’t matter. That which we call a rose.’

‘True.’ DeBryn moved his hand, settling it on Morse’s head to silk a lock of hair through his fingers. How to explain? ‘But it’s rather pleasant to have a separate name to the address one presents to the world. For example, I may be Doctor DeBryn to colleagues, and to all at the station. But,’ his face warmed slightly, ‘I like being Max to my family and friends. And to you.’

Foolish, to attach so much importance to a single syllable, but there it was, and DeBryn struggled not to look away, newly shy as Morse rolled his head to meet his eyes. ‘Do you?’

The faint shadows at the back of his eyes had gone, his curiosity lightening his face once more.

‘Yes.’ 

‘And you’d like something to call me,’ Morse said quietly. ‘Some sort of pet name or–’ a fleeting grimace crossed his face, ‘a nickname.’

There seemed to be a story there, but when it wasn’t forthcoming DeBryn only stroked his hair.

‘If you want to,’ he murmured. ‘It’s just a thought.’

It might be easier for Morse to observe the separation of private and public if DeBryn were to address him differently when alone together, although DeBryn would be lying to himself if he tried to deny the appeal of the added intimacy.

‘Well I’ve no middle names,’ Morse said at last, sliding a hand out from under his head to catch hold of DeBryn’s, and DeBryn bit his lip against a boyish delight as he listened to Morse seriously consider it.

Instead he looked down at Morse, whose brow was crumpled in thought. Difficult to think of Morse by any other name, really. Unless – memory stirred – it was the one that Morse had given himself, all those months ago, and that had appeared frequently in DeBryn’s erotic fantasies until the late summer day he stood on a riverbank, heard a familiar voice, and turned to come face to face with...

‘Thomas,’ DeBryn murmured, a spark of mischief pushing him to voice it aloud.

Morse turned an astonished gaze to him. ‘You...’ A pink flush washed up his throat from his opened shirt collar and into his face. ‘You remember that?’

Good God, if he only knew...

‘Oh yes.’ DeBryn was unable to keep a dry note from his voice. ‘Vividly, I assure you.’ He teased Morse’s knuckles with his fingertips. ‘Honestly, what on earth were you thinking? Or was it your religious upbringing, as I suspected?’

Morse laughed briefly, still flushed. ‘Nothing of the sort. I was trying to find an anonymous name, a Tom, Dick, or Harry sort of name. And chose the first one of the three.’

‘Well. It – and you – made quite an impression. I could think of little else for days afterwards.’

Morse looked down, the sweep of lashes veiling his expression but his smile as pleased as a cat’s.

‘Well,’ he said, his voice slightly husky in a way that left DeBryn acutely aware of the length of Morse’s body, stretched out next to his. ‘If you like, then.’

Hardly the most ringing of approvals, but Morse’s fingers slid between his and there was a flash of white teeth at he bit his lower lip. Morse rested their clasped hands on the ground above his head, for all the world as though DeBryn was holding him down, looking up at DeBryn, and DeBryn shifted his weight and reached to brush his other thumb along the line of Morse’s eyebrow, tracing it back across his temple and over the delicate curve of his ear.

DeBryn wanted him, suddenly, very badly indeed. Slept, and showered, and fed, Morse was a different creature entirely from the exhausted man who had arrived at his door last night, overwork etched into every line of him, and DeBryn wanted to take him upstairs and sate his other appetites. As Morse’s fingers flexed and tightened around his DeBryn traced a fingertip across Morse’s lips, his mouth dry and heart pounding, trying to make the suggestion he didn’t know how to voice.

But Morse glanced at his face, smiled a quick, private smile, and turned his attention to the book open on DeBryn’s lap. ‘What are you reading?’

He sounded genuinely curious, and DeBryn dragged his mind out of the bedroom and – uncurling his fingers from Morse’s clasp – picked up the book to show Morse the cover. Perhaps he hadn’t been sufficiently obvious. Or perhaps he had, but Morse simply wasn’t in the mood.

‘An account of Pope’s gardens; apparently they were famous in their time.’ DeBryn waved a hand at his own stretch of garden, still half-wild. ‘I’m in the process of tidying up my own.’

‘And you thought you’d look to the eighteenth century for inspiration?’

DeBryn gave Morse as reproving a look as he could manage, with his fingers still itching to twine themselves with Morse’s once more.

‘There are worse places to start.’ He nodded at the book Morse had brought out with him, tucked on the far side of Morse’s body and hidden from sight. ‘What did you find to interest you?’

‘I found...’ Morse broke off and shifted, wincing a little. ‘Actually, this isn’t very comfortable. Would you mind if I–’

‘Of course.’ The ground must be hard; DeBryn was already reaching for the cushion behind his own back, ready to push it under Morse’s shoulders as Morse half-sat up, but froze when Morse wriggled around and rested his head in DeBryn’s lap.

‘Is this alright?’ Morse blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence, his head heavy on DeBryn’s thighs. He squirmed a little, settling himself.

‘Yes.’ DeBryn was blushing, he knew it from the heat in his cheeks and throat. Perhaps Morse would put it down to the warm afternoon. ‘Yes, fine.’

‘You’re not uncomfortable?’

With Morse’s face so close to his trouserfront he would be very uncomfortable indeed, in very short order, if he didn’t control himself and stem the flood of filthy ideas. DeBryn shook his head tightly, wrenching his thoughts back to gardening. ‘Not at all.’

‘Good.’ Morse quirked a smile at him. ‘And in answer to your question...’ He reached down to hold up the volume so DeBryn could read the spine: _Love Poems of Greece and Rome_

It had been an impulse purchase from a second-hand bookshop, bought on a rainy afternoon shortly after DeBryn moved to Oxford. He had had good intentions about brushing up his schoolboy Latin; he hadn’t even dreamed that one day he would see it in the hands of his lover. His male lover, lying in his lap, and his mouth went dry, all his suppressed longing surging up once more. ‘I see.’

Morse paged through the book absently. ‘I read Catullus when I was a randy teenager, looking for the dirty bits.’

DeBryn had to swallow hard before he could trust his voice. ‘Did you find them?’

‘Not as well as I’d hoped.’ A flash of a grin. ‘I had to use my imagination a bit.’

Did Morse have any idea what this was doing to DeBryn? Lying half in his lap, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, rumpled and sun-flushed, cradling a volume of Greek love poetry in his long hands?

And then Morse slanted a thoroughly knowing look at him from under his lashes, blue eyes caught between flirtation and mischief, and DeBryn bit his lip as a smile pulled at his mouth. So it was a game, then. And perhaps one he knew how to play.

‘Enjoy your book.’ Morse’s tone was all prim politeness as he opened his book, and in contrast DeBryn closed his own and set it aside.

‘Actually I’ve rather lost interest in it.’ DeBryn reached down, gently unfastening a further button on Morse’s shirt, and settled Morse’s head more comfortably. ‘Perhaps you could read me something from yours.’

Morse’s white shirt was open down to his sternum, with its dusting of pale hair, but DeBryn ignored temptation and laid his fingers gently on the side of Morse’s throat, feeling the delicate contraction as he swallowed.

‘Alright then.’ Morse flicked through the book. With anyone else DeBryn would have dismissed the gesture as mere pretence, but from a former Greats scholar he had no doubt Morse knew exactly what he was looking for and a moment later Morse began. ‘ _Mellitos oculos tuos, Iuventi..._ ’

The gentle thrum of Morse’s voice vibrated under DeBryn’s fingertips and DeBryn stroked Morse’s throat as he listened, occasionally straying upwards to touch an ear, or the sharp line of his jaw.

‘ _...sit nostrae seges osculationis._ ’

‘Beautiful.’ Morse’s cheeks were gratifyingly pink, and DeBryn brushed a thumb over his chin. ‘Another one?’

Morse turned the page, paused, and began. ‘ _Phainetai moi kenos isos theoisin…_ ’

This time DeBryn’s hand wandered lower, to the soft hollow at the base of Morse’s throat, and sleeked along the delicate wings of collar bones, pushing Morse’s shirt collar aside almost enough to bare a freckled shoulder to the sun’s kiss, before returning to the suprasternal notch.

This time Morse sounded breathless as he delivered the final line, and DeBryn waited until he had finished speaking before tracing his fingers lightly across Morse’s lips once again. Warm breath feathered across the backs of his fingers and this time Morse lifted his chin, his lips firming slightly to leave the ghost of a kiss on DeBryn’s knuckles.

It was a request for more, even DeBryn could read that plainly, but instead he lowered his hand and Morse shifted in restless protest. DeBryn traced idle patterns at the base of Morse’s throat and murmured, ‘Go on.’ Morse huffed a sigh, his chest rising inside his loosened shirt and his shoulders twitching impatiently, but DeBryn only gentled him. ‘I’ll continue as long as you do.’

Morse made no reply to that, only flipped to the next page and began and DeBryn closed his eyes, the better to appreciate the beautiful old syllables falling from Morse’s clever tongue, and stroked appreciatively along his sternum. Morse shifted, not breaking the flow of his words but somehow contriving to arch up towards DeBryn’s hand while speaking, and DeBryn caught his lip between his teeth and – finally – yielded to his desire to slide his hand inside Morse’s loosened shirt and splay over his chest.

The day was warm enough that Morse had left off his undershirt, and DeBryn stroked bare skin, a faint tickle of hair under his palm and fingertips. The still-fastened buttons prevented him reaching farther down Morse’s chest and stomach but Morse – impatient as ever – laid the book down on his chest, deftly unfastened the next button, and picked it up again without dropping a word.

Out of Morse’s sight, DeBryn smirked. Of course the fellow didn’t need the book to recite Classics poetry. Such a memory feat deserved a reward and he smoothed his hand lower, finding the subtle arches of the ribcage. There was too little flesh on them for his liking and DeBryn spared a moment for a more professional touch, wondering idly about Morse’s weight and resting blood pressure. It could go some way to explaining his tendency to faintness when queasy, and DeBryn slid his hand back up to rest his palm firmly over the steady thump of Morse’s heart.

Morse finished the poem and started on the next with barely a pause, pushing lightly up into DeBryn’s hand and DeBryn didn’t even pretend not to understand his impatience: with his hand over Morse’s heart, he barely had to shift his fingertips across warm muscle and wiry hair to find the soft peak of his nipple.

The resulting quiver in Morse’s voice was divine, and DeBryn pressed his thumb to it. Gently at first but, as it tightened under his attentions DeBryn rubbed at it more firmly – up and down and over and around – until he caught it between finger and thumb, squeezing lightly, and Morse’s voice broke on a gasp. ‘Max...’

Desire uncurled in DeBryn’s stomach, heating his blood and tightening his groin, but he released his grip and smoothed his thumb back and forth, ostensibly soothing tender flesh. ‘Go on.’

After a pause Morse obeyed, but his voice was audibly rougher, tension stealing through his body where there had been only easy relaxation just moments ago. DeBryn gave him a couple of moments to calm himself before resuming; teasing and stroking and rubbing steadily back and forth over sensitive flesh, and this time when Morse finished the poem he shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, his face flushed and his ribs moving under his warm skin, under DeBryn’s teasing touch. Sucking his lower lip between his teeth, DeBryn stroked Morse’s hair back from his forehead and with his other hand he curled his fingers to drag his nails lightly across tight flesh.

‘Oh...’

The noise was soft, just on the edge of hearing, but it was matched by a sinuous arch to Morse’s spine, pushing up into DeBryn’s touch, and further down Morse’s legs shifted, his knees parting. The bulge at his groin sent DeBryn’s mouth flushing wet with hunger. He had a vivid picture of having Morse right here: sliding onto the grass between his thighs and opening his trousers, the heat of the sun on his back and the heat of Morse hard in his mouth.

DeBryn bit his lip as his cock throbbed faintly. His trousers were rapidly growing uncomfortable, and Morse’s squirming and sighing were their own sort of exquisite tease even without his deep voice murmuring words of love and desire.

‘Don’t stop.’ His voice was hoarse, and Morse flicked a glance at him, at his mouth, but began the next poem.

This time DeBryn didn’t pause his caresses when the poem ended, but nevertheless Morse continued to read, and DeBryn massaged his thumb in tight circles, watching the colour deepen in Morse’s cheeks and his restless squirming, until Morse bent a leg, bracing a foot on the grass and shifting his hips.

DeBryn knew that movement. It had been instinctive, but it was the moment of a man whose trousers had finally grown too tight for comfort; the knowledge was more than his self-restraint could stand, and DeBryn tugged his hand free of Morse’s open shirt and reached down to pull Morse’s shirt-tails out of his trousers, too impatient to bother with the remaining shirt buttons, until he could splay his hand greedily on the warm skin of Morse’s stomach, a bare inch above the leather belt snug around his hips.

The poem cut short, Morse sucked in a deep breath. ‘Max...’

His heart pounding, DeBryn inched his hand lower, tormenting himself as much as Morse, until he could cup his palm over the hard rise of Morse’s erection.

Morse gave a shaky noise and the book fell unheeded to the rug as he shuddered, one hand grabbing DeBryn’s forearm and squeezing.

‘Easy,’ DeBryn murmured. The fabric of Morse’s trousers was pulled tight across his arousal, and DeBryn thumbed deliberately along the zipper, tracing his way down rub firmly at the base and back up to the tip of him, and Morse bit his lip and closed his eyes as his cheeks flamed.

The garden was sheltered by its hedges, and the spreading branches and leaves of the tree would protect them from any casual glance out of an upstairs window from the neighbouring houses. Yet a lifetime’s habits weren’t so easily set aside, not even for Morse, and DeBryn squirmed, more nervous than aroused.

And yet his hand slid back up to Morse’s stomach, wringing a quiet groan from Morse, before skimming lower and pushing under the belt buckle. Morse sucked in his stomach and lifted his hips, once he realised what DeBryn was doing, opening a space for his searching hand and there, like that. DeBryn’s fingertips brushed smooth skin, wiry hair, and – finally – blood-hot flesh, and Morse folded his lips together tightly against a tiny noise deep in his throat.

The next instant he was squirming, tugging DeBryn’s hand out of his trousers and eeling out of DeBryn’s lap to sit up and grip a fistful of DeBryn’s shirt, tugging him down to sprawl on the rug and cupping his face to kiss him.

And such greedy kisses: Morse plucked DeBryn’s glasses off his nose and thumbed at his chin, coaxing his lips open and kissing as though he were starving for it, and DeBryn wrapped his arms around Morse, one hand rubbing Morse’s back, the other dipping low to cup his arse, making him gasp and push against DeBryn.

‘Can we,’ Morse muttered, between kisses, his hands sliding frantically over DeBryn’s arms, his stomach, ‘go upstairs now?’ Another kiss. ‘Please?’

DeBryn drew back to reply, but his answer was lost in a gasp. Morse’s hand had found its way between his legs to cup and rub at his erection, and DeBryn’s eyes fluttered closed as he pushed greedily against Morse’s touch.

Anything. Anything Morse wanted; to keep that sweet rhythmic pressure on his cock, Morse’s kisses stinging his mouth, DeBryn would have promised him the world, and he tilted his chin up when Morse nosed at his jaw, kissing along his throat until he reached DeBryn’s ear.

‘ _Da mi basia mille_ ,’ Morse murmured, and DeBryn knew a moment’s confusion before his mind caught up. He closed his eyes briefly and smiled, his heart singing as Morse continued, ‘ _Deinde centum–_ ’

DeBryn sighed, his hands cupping Morse’s arse, pulling him close against him, and Morse groaned, deep in his throat, and bit gently at DeBryn’s throat, grinding his hips down. ‘ _Dein mille altera, dein secunda centum–_ ’

Morse pushed a knee insistently between both of DeBryn’s, rubbing his arousal hard against DeBryn’s hip. Morse’s fingers plucked at DeBryn’s shirt buttons, opening them and leaning down to nuzzle at the newly bared skin. ‘ _Deinde usque altera mille, deinde–_ ’

‘Alright.’ DeBryn wound his fingers through Morse’s hair, his heart pounding from the weight of Morse on his chest, the greedy kisses in between requests for yet more. ‘Yes, alright. As many as you want. But for God’s sake get in the house before I have you right here in the garden.’

But DeBryn’s hand crept up under Morse’s loosened shirt, along the smooth length of his back, to rub at his nipples again, and Morse veered back up for a hard kiss that made DeBryn’s erection throb, caught uncomfortably in his underwear.

‘Max.’ Morse veered away to smear kisses across DeBryn’s jaw, down over his throat. ‘God, _Max_.’

Morse squirmed, burrowing harder against DeBryn, and DeBryn reached down to grab his hips – unsure whether he was trying to push Morse away or pull him closer in this frantic grind – and the next instant Morse was straddling DeBryn’s hips, his trousers pulled tight across his groin and the thick line of his cock all too obvious.

‘Oh,’ Morse gasped, spreading his knees slightly to sink low enough to rub himself against DeBryn, leaning forward to claim another kiss and dragging his cock against DeBryn’s erection.

Arousal bloomed hot under his skin, his hips lifting instinctively under Morse’s weight, but the next instant worry clawed at him. Good God, if someone did happen to look over the tall hedge they would see two men a hair’s-breadth from public indecency, with Morse’s shirt pulled half-off him and so ready to go off that a firm hand against the front of his trousers would probably do it for him. For a policeman Morse seemed to have no sense of self-preservation at all.

‘Morse, get off,’ DeBryn panted, and when Morse lifted his head, flushed and dishevelled, hips still rolling in a slow, filthy grind against DeBryn’s, DeBryn groaned through his teeth but planted a hand on Morse’s chest, pushing him away gently.

‘Get in the house,’ DeBryn repeated, dropping his hand to squeeze lightly at the bulge in Morse’s trousers, getting a flash of blunt white teeth nipping at a lip. ‘Not here. _Go_.’

This time Morse staggered awkwardly to his feet, although whether from the same worry that nagged at DeBryn or in simple obedience DeBryn couldn’t say. It hardly mattered, though, when Morse was pulling DeBryn to his feet in turn, hands all over him, and tangling his fingers with DeBryn’s to fairly drag him back into the house and upstairs.

In the bedroom Morse shed his clothes swiftly and DeBryn barely had time for a glance at him – flush spreading down his chest, his cock standing dark and stiff with blood – before Morse was fumbling with DeBryn’s shirt cuffs, half-mauling him in his haste before pausing, almost tenderly, to lift DeBryn’s glasses off his nose once again and fold them carefully before catching DeBryn’s face between his long hands for a kiss.

This was better than the garden. Not that DeBryn didn’t have a few fantasies about that: rolling around on the warm grass, the fresh scents of nature mingling with the earthier scents of sex. But with only the net curtains drawn across the window DeBryn could admire Morse in daylight without worrying who else might also see.

And he was worth admiring. The slim column of his throat, the pale skin, the unguarded happiness in his face as their hands collided on DeBryn’s shirt buttons. They were getting fearfully in each other’s way, and at last DeBryn stepped away.

‘Get into bed,’ he ordered, his heart fluttering with delight when Morse tried to follow him. ‘I’ll be faster by myself.’

He was. Morse snapped the sheets and blankets back and stretched out naked on the bed, watching as DeBryn fumbled with his shoelaces and loosened his belt buckle, and when DeBryn straightened up he was knocked breathless at the sight.

Morse could have stepped straight from a bacchanal of old: tousled curls, flushed mouth still tasting faintly of wine, lying among rumpled sheets with the summer sun dancing through gauzy curtains to fall on marble-pale skin, his eyes dark with desire as he waited for his lover to join him.

‘What?’ Morse asked, and DeBryn realised he had been staring too long.

‘You.’ His loosened trousers still riding on his hips, DeBryn stumbled over to the bed to lean down and claim an open-mouthed kiss. ‘You look like an ancient Greek reveller.’

Of course Morse understood at once. ‘Mm. Straight from the Dionysia.’

Morse lay down, watching as DeBryn shoved his trousers and underwear down and stepped out of them, almost tripping. One hand crept down his body to stroke lightly along his cock, a sight so arousing DeBryn’s breath shook. ‘Are there any other Greek practices you’d like to teach me?’

Good God, if he only knew. But no sooner had he finished speaking than DeBryn was climbing into bed, and Morse rolled towards him, hands gripping his shoulders, his waist, to pull him close and tangle their naked legs together. DeBryn pushed his cock against Morse’s smooth hip and wrapped his arms around Morse’s waist, his heart racing at the press of Morse’s bare chest to his own, the heat of Morse’s erection against his thigh.

‘What do you want?’ Morse asked, his lips exploring the crook of DeBryn’s neck, the slope of his bare shoulder.

DeBryn closed his eyes, his hands stroking greedily over the long muscles of Morse’s back. ‘Anything.’

The sheets were cool beneath him, Morse’s hands warm and insistent. ‘There must be something, though.’

Unbidden, half a dozen ideas flashed through DeBryn’s mind, and he pressed his cheek to Morse’s head as Morse kissed his collar bone, mute.

Morse drew back, bracing himself up on an arm to look down into DeBryn’s face with a look that sent blood rushing to DeBryn’s cheeks. He tugged at Morse’s arm, trying to draw him close for more kisses and escape scrutiny. But Morse held firm, drawing a hand pensively down DeBryn’s arm.

‘What do you think about when you’re... you know.’ Morse’s voice was low and intimate, and DeBryn blinked at him, distracted utterly by the flutter of pulse in his throat.

‘When I’m...’

‘You know.’ Morse dipped his head for a lush kiss, but resisted DeBryn’s attempts to draw it out. ‘Alone.’

The moment it became clear, DeBryn fairly blushed. Of course he did it – good God, every man alive did – but it was something else to be asked about it, even by his lover.

‘Why?’ he managed weakly.

Perhaps Morse sensed his discomfort, for he leaned down for another kiss, fingers and thumb curling around DeBryn’s jaw. ‘Because you deserve to have it. Whatever it is you think about.’

‘I do,’ DeBryn said, leaning into Morse and shivering at the slow press of Morse’s thigh between his.

‘Even so...’

Morse’s voice trailed off invitingly, and DeBryn kissed his neck and pressed his face to Morse’s shoulder, giving himself a moment’s privacy. Of course he had fantasies. About being inside him, about Morse learning to like it, to want it. But that was too much, he couldn’t ask for that. But just perhaps, instead...

‘Watching,’ he breathed, against Morse’s freckled shoulder.

‘Yes?’

Morse’s voice was warm, encouraging. But DeBryn had already said too much, and he merely gripped Morse’s wrist, kissing his fingers before pushing his hand down between them. ‘What you were doing before...’ DeBryn kissed Morse’s soft mouth, squeezing his eyes closed, unable to look at Morse’s expression as he confessed, ‘Don’t stop.’

‘Alright.’ DeBryn’s kiss was returned, and he opened his eyes as Morse shifted, rolling onto his back and sliding an arm around DeBryn’s neck as his other hand curled around himself. ‘Like this?’

Face burning, DeBryn nodded, and leaned in for another kiss as Morse’s hand began to move.

Morse’s arm was warm and steady around his neck, his chest rising sharply as his breath began to come quicker, and DeBryn leaned into him and kissed him hungrily. Kissed his mouth, his face, even his throat and shoulders. Despite – or perhaps because – of his request he couldn’t seem to make himself look any lower than Morse’s flushed chest, until Morse’s hand gripped his nape.

‘Watch.’ Morse leaned up, kissing him briefly before withdrawing. ‘Go on.’

Encouraged, DeBryn’s gaze wandered lower: past the dusting of pale hair on Morse’s chest, the arches of his ribs, the traces of softness at his stomach, to where his hand curled around himself, fingers stroking his own flushed length, and DeBryn bit his lip.

Morse was close already, from their kisses and caresses in the garden, and under DeBryn’s hungry gaze Morse arched into his own touch, sighing a little. His thigh, pressed against DeBryn’s, trembled faintly, and when he paused to rub tightly around the head of his cock he moaned, turning instinctively to DeBryn for a kiss so filthy that DeBryn’s hand crept down to touch himself, his cock aching.

It was better than DeBryn’s fantasies, and he lost track of time, watching Morse’s hand, the rise and fall of his chest, until Morse gave a desperate moan and DeBryn realised Morse was drawing this out for him, letting him look his fill.

Abruptly it was enough; he wanted nothing more than to see Morse finish, and DeBryn licked his own palm and reached quickly down between them, pushing Morse’s hand away from himself.

‘Yes, alright,’ he said, kissing Morse fiercely when Morse’s hand rose to grip his shoulder, his other hand clutching DeBryn’s nape. ‘Come on, then.’

A few strokes, a practiced twist of his wrist, following the hitches of Morse’s hips, and soon Morse was gasping his finish against DeBryn’s shoulder, his cock jerking sharply in DeBryn’s fist and his thighs sliding against DeBryn’s, his heels dragging heavily across the sheets.

DeBryn held him tightly through it, coaxing out the last shivers of pleasure, until Morse sagged against him and kissed his throat softly.

‘Hmm.’ He stretched luxuriously, pressing his slick stomach to DeBryn’s, and DeBryn closed his eyes under the pounding of raw need in his temples. ‘Your turn now.’

‘I thought that was my turn,’ DeBryn said weakly, stupid with desire as Morse rolled onto his back and pulled DeBryn to lie atop him.

Morse’s stomach was firm and slick under his own, and DeBryn kissed Morse and thrust hungrily against him. There was a soft hollow by his hipbone and DeBryn pressed his cock into it. He could easily come like this, as wound up as he was, but lifted his hips when Morse slid his hands down between their bodies. He gathered DeBryn’s cock into his fist, closing his fingers to create a tight space for DeBryn to thrust into, and DeBryn groaned heavily and jerked his hips forward.

He was sweating, so close he was shaking with it. Morse nudged his nose against DeBryn’s cheek, wordlessly offering a kiss, and DeBryn turned his head to kiss Morse’s soft mouth while he spread his knees and bunched the pillows in his fists, driving into Morse’s hands. There was nothing but the pleasure of Morse’s touch, Morse’s biting kisses driving his desire higher, and even the headboard knocking against the wall was in counterpoint to the blood pounding in his temples, his heart racing in his chest.

A flutter of Morse’s fingers, a firm squeeze at the base and DeBryn cried out, hovering on the edge for a few delicious seconds before he groaned, burying his face against Morse’s shoulder and coming into his steady hands.

Morse held him tightly as DeBryn shuddered through it, and when he was done Morse touched his jaw with slick fingers, lifting DeBryn’s face from his shoulder for a kiss as DeBryn gasped for breath, muscles weak with pleasure.

He moved off Morse and sank down next to him, heart pounding and sweat dampening his temples, and flung an arm over his face, gulping for breath. Dimly, he was aware of Morse reaching for the box of tissues by the bed to wipe his hands, and only stirred when Morse’s warmth settled along his side.

‘Are you alright?’ Morse’s smile was audible, and he kissed DeBryn’s wrist, placed so conveniently in front of his face.

‘My heart,’ was all DeBryn could manage, and he drew a deep breath and tried again. ‘My heart is... dear God, what you do to me.’

Morse laughed at that, his fingers plucking at DeBryn’s wrist and DeBryn let Morse lift his arm away and claim a kiss. Morse’s hand crept under his chin and DeBryn was briefly puzzled, until two of Morse’s fingertips pushed inexpertly into his throat and DeBryn broke away with a huff of amusement.

‘Whoever taught you how to take a pulse? You’re miles off.’

He folded Morse’s fingers gently into his hand, shifting them higher and demonstrating the professional touch as Morse sniffed. ‘I get by alright.’

‘Well you’ll get by rather better now–’

Morse’s kiss cut off his teasing, and DeBryn left Morse stroking his throat to cup Morse’s nape.

‘You _wanted_ it,’ Morse breathed against his mouth. ‘I can’t believe how much you wanted it.’

‘Of course I wanted it.’ DeBryn half-turned to Morse, wrapping an arm around his waist and running fingertips along his spine. ‘Did I look like I was being held hostage?’

‘No, I just mean...’ Morse propped his head up on a hand, looking down into DeBryn’s face. ‘I know it’s been a while since we’ve...had an evening alone together.’ Morse glanced away, and DeBryn thought perhaps he wasn’t the only one for whom the past week had dragged. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask all morning, but you didn’t. I even thought we might go upstairs before lunch, but you suggested the garden.’

‘Ah.’ How on earth to explain himself? In hindsight, his dithering seemed ridiculous.

Morse rubbed one foot back and forth across DeBryn’s. ‘I mean, you do seem to know what you’re doing with all this.’

‘In some ways I know what I’m doing, yes,’ DeBryn said slowly. Morse fell silent, looking at him curiously, but DeBryn stared instead at his own hand stroking Morse’s side, that looked almost tanned in contrast to Morse’s pale skin. ‘You know that there have been... others. Before.’

No need for numbers. And to tell the truth DeBryn himself was unsure how many there had been; those men he had met out at Godstow were about bodily release, not soft memories of a lover to be taken out and lingered over at a later date.

‘And yet in other ways, I don’t know what I’m doing at all.’ DeBryn waved a hand, trying to encompass the pair of them lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon, their shared lunch, the bathroom door that Morse had fixed, the bedroom chair that DeBryn was coming to think of as Morse’s, given that it was where his clothes usually ended up. The possessiveness of Morse’s foot curled artlessly around DeBryn’s calf.

‘Hmm.’ Morse still watched him, eyes shockingly blue in his flushed face, against the pale sheets.

DeBryn licked his lips. ‘Do you understand?’

‘I think so.’ Morse leaned in for another kiss; his lips were soft and affectionate, and this chap – never slow on the uptake – very probably did understand. DeBryn cupped his jaw in silent gratitude.

The sun had started to dip in the sky, the heat of the day cooling, and DeBryn ran his hand up Morse’s back over a faint prickle of gooseflesh. He disentangled himself to sit up briefly and pull sheet and blankets up over them, and when he lay back down Morse rolled onto his back and DeBryn propped himself on an elbow to look down into Morse’s face.

Morse smiled at him, one hand tucking itself under his head and the other running a knuckle lightly back and forth over DeBryn’s sternum, and DeBryn smoothed the sheet over Morse’s chest. This was Morse as soft and open as he ever got; perhaps DeBryn could afford to be bold. ‘And you?’

It was quietly spoken into the still air of the room. Quietly enough that Morse could ignore it if he so chose, but instead he sighed, stilling his hand to press his palm to DeBryn’s chest, over his heart.

‘There was another fellow,’ Morse murmured, and DeBryn almost held his breath against disturbing this new information, offered so softly. ‘In my first year. We shared a tutorial, then found we were in the same college. He invited me to his rooms one evening for a drink, and...’ Morse’s voice trailed off and he shrugged. ‘Nothing... much, though.’

And DeBryn recalled, so many months ago, Morse kneeling astride his hips and silently guiding his hand back, determined and yet in hindsight so clearly uncertain. Perhaps, despite Morse’s reticence, one could have a fair approximation of what had – and more importantly, hadn’t – taken place between Morse and this other chap. The idea made interest stir low in his belly: a younger Morse learning the touch of another man’s hands, his mouth.

To distract himself, DeBryn stroked a hand over Morse’s stomach, prompting an approving murmur, a slight shift and tilt of Morse’s hips and a calf pushing warmly between his.

‘And?’ DeBryn asked, because the tone of Morse’s voice, the subtle tension in his body spoke volumes, hinting at a whole untold story.

For a long moment Morse was silent, and he shifted his hand to trail it along DeBryn’s ribs. It tickled, but at that moment DeBryn would have borne any degree of torture sooner than interrupt the new information he suspected – he hoped – was coming.

‘I met... a girl,’ Morse said at last. ‘At the end of my first year. It was while Philip and I were... but I mean, we only sometimes did, it wasn’t serious. He didn’t mind when I said I couldn’t any more.’

Privately DeBryn had his doubts about that. Morse, with his beautiful face and clever brain and quiet ways, was the sort of fellow a chap could fall in love with all too easily. But equally there was something about him, a sort of quiet dignity and resolve that made the idea of begging for his withdrawn affection utterly abhorrent. DeBryn had a flash of compassion for the unknown Philip. If he were in the chap’s shoes, he too might well have chosen to pretend it hadn’t mattered.

‘Susan.’ Morse shivered slightly as he spoke the name, as though conjuring a ghost, and DeBryn rested a protective arm over Morse’s waist.

But the shift in position made Morse hesitate.

‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this,’ he muttered, shifting restlessly.

DeBryn pressed his palm to Morse’s waist.

‘Because I asked,’ he said quietly, as Morse picked at the hem of the sheet. ‘And because I want to know.’

Slowly, Morse let the sheet fall to rest his hand on DeBryn’s chest. ‘She and I were... together. Engaged.’

DeBryn struggled to contain his shock at the word, to maintain the steady passes of his hand up and down Morse’s side.

‘But then in my final year – at the start of the Hilary term – she told me she couldn’t. That there was someone else. A chap she’d been with in her first year; he’d gone away but he’d come back and she had realised she–’ Morse broke off, tense under DeBryn’s stroking palm. ‘So we ended it.’

_She_ ended it, DeBryn translated to himself.

‘And so you left without finishing your degree,’ he said, pieces falling into place. He may not be a detective, but his job still involved drawing conclusions from available evidence.

And then, because so abrupt and total a departure, not even staying to sit his final exams, stirred his medical instincts, DeBryn added: ‘A breakdown, was it?’

‘No.’ At once Morse bristled, his hand stilling on DeBryn’s chest. ‘No, not at all. I just. Didn’t want to stay.’

Not even to get the degree he had been working towards for years, and he had left not just academia but Oxford itself. It sounded more than a simple reluctance to stay in an area associated with painful memories, but this time DeBryn had the sense to keep his own counsel.

‘And after that?’

Morse sighed deeply, and DeBryn had the distinct impression that, although he lay in DeBryn’s arms, Morse was very far away, surrounded by ghosts.

‘Moved back to my father’s house for a bit.’

From the pieces he had gleaned of Morse’s family, it was easy to imagine how this would have been received. The faintly queer son, returning him in disgrace from a failed engagement and an abandoned degree at his posh university... DeBryn caught hold of Morse’s hand on his chest, lacing their fingers together and gripping.

‘Knocked about a bit.’ Morse tried a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Joined the Army – he approved of that.’

DeBryn stilled, swallowing convulsively. A certain number of his private fantasies featured soldiers. As did those of other men like him, doubtless; he didn’t fancy himself so original as all that. To say nothing of the trip to Soho he had taken when newly qualified, half-sick with the fear of running into someone he knew, and the packet of postcards discreetly tucked on the top shelf at the back of a certain dimly lit shop...

Cleared his throat, praying he sounded no more than mildly interested, DeBryn managed, ‘Oh yes?’

‘Mm. Signals.’

‘I see.’

Something in DeBryn’s voice had tipped the fellow off, for Morse lifted his head to peer into DeBryn’s face. Caught.

‘It wasn’t that unusual a choice,’ he said slowly, confused. ‘Ciphers, cryptography... I enjoyed it.’

‘I’m sure you did,’ DeBryn murmured faintly, trying hard to think of other things even as his cock tingled, firming as blood pooled warm in his groin.

The sheets rustled as Morse shifted, sliding his thigh against DeBryn’s until he brushed against DeBryn’s cock, and DeBryn was too slow to stifle a gasp at the tantalising pressure.

‘Oh.’ Morse’s tone had shifted, the haunted look disappearing from the backs of his eyes, replaced with amused interest. ‘Really? The Army?’

Useless to attempt a denial, and instead DeBryn slanted his hips minutely, pushing his renewed arousal lightly against Morse’s thigh. ‘Mm. More you in it, if you follow.’

Morse gently untangled their hands and began to stroke DeBryn’s chest, his fingertip brushing erratically across DeBryn’s nipple before sliding his hand lower. ‘Two years, it was.’

‘I see.’ The sheets were a soft tickle across the head of his cock, just starting to be exposed as he hardened further, and DeBryn sighed under Morse’s caresses across his stomach and thighs, shifting and turning to face him.

Morse was smiling widely now, looking close to outright laughter at this newly discovered peccadillo. Well, let him. If it kept his ghosts away then DeBryn’s dignity was a more than fair exchange, and DeBryn stroked Morse’s chest, no longer caressing but trying to arouse, trying to encourage the signs of renewed interest stirring against his hip.

He bit his lower lip, a touch theatrically, watching the curiosity on Morse’s face. ‘Are there... photographs?’

Morse did laugh then, his eyes dancing. ‘I’m sure there must be somewhere.’

Such candour about his past was more than DeBryn had hoped for. It deserved reciprocation, yet DeBryn’s own history was so very different to Morse’s. More breadth, perhaps, but less depth; for so many of them he hadn’t even known their _names_. 

But perhaps there were other things he could offer, and DeBryn slid his hand down to the small of Morse’s back, trying to find the same sweet spot that Morse sometimes brushed, all unknowing, when he touched DeBryn. He murmured, oddly shy: ‘I like it when you touch me here, like this.’

As best he could, DeBryn replicated the approximate pressure and stroking that invariably made his toes curl, and Morse looked briefly surprised. ‘Do you?’ It was there and gone in a moment, replaced by something much hungrier. ‘Well then.’

He leaned in for a kiss, pressing their chests together and his lips already parted, and at the teasing glance of his tongue DeBryn moaned softly in remembered pleasure and breathless anticipation, his face burning when Morse reached for the jar of Vaseline and unscrewed the lid. He put his arms around Morse, pressing his hot cheek to Morse’s and parted his knees, silently encouraging.

The bedroom door creaked open and DeBryn startled away, snatching the crumpled sheet up around Morse’s shoulders reflexively. Uselessly, for there was no hiding the fact of the pair of them in bed together naked; and on a Sunday, it was madness that it should seem the worse for being a Sunday but somehow the fault was all the more grievous for being on the Sabbath. And with Morse a _serving police officer_ , dear God, how could DeBryn have been so careless of his safety; at best it would be blackmail, and at worst prosecution, public exposure, prison. 

Beside him Morse twisted sharply to look, half-sitting up, instinctively bracing his body as though to shield DeBryn from a blow or an attack. Entirely typical of the fellow’s decency but it was hopeless, there was no chance of passing this off as something other than what it was.

It all flashed through DeBryn’s mind in the few seconds it took for the door to swing fully open, the threshold revealing – not a burglar or prospective blackmailer – but no-one at all. They remained undiscovered, and Morse let out a huge sigh as he collapsed back onto the mattress.

DeBryn gasped for breath, his racing heart warring with the tremendous sense of relief loosening his muscles. ‘It doesn’t usually do that.’

Raising himself on one arm, Morse rolled away to look over the side of the bed, trying to get a clear view out onto the landing, and he gave one of his rare laughs at the same moment as a plaintive chirrup sounded from the floor just inside the doorway.

‘Oh now really,’ DeBryn exclaimed, sitting up to peer myopically over Morse’s shoulder at the small ginger smudge. ‘This is too much.’

‘Well if you will leave the French windows open.’ Morse twisted to smile at him, face bright with laughter.

DeBryn returned his look. ‘I was distracted at the time, as well you know. Thomas.’ He leaned on the name just slightly; Morse’s smile widened and DeBryn found himself tumbled back into the sheets, a naked and aroused Morse half-climbing on top of him.

‘Like you said.’ Morse ducked his head to nose at DeBryn’s jaw, leaving kisses in his wake. ‘If you feed strays, they’ll follow you anywhere.’

Like this their groins were pressed tightly together, and DeBryn thrust lightly against him and listened to Morse’s pleased groan. He rolled fully onto his back, dragging Morse with him until Morse sat astride his thighs, arching his back to push their erections against each other.

‘I wonder–’ DeBryn’s hands cupped Morse’s hips, his thumbs stroking the twin too-sharp edges of the iliac crests, ‘–how much I would have to feed you for you to follow me all the way to a certain secluded cabin on the Tay.’

‘The river Tay?’ Morse, confused, was an enchanting sight. ‘What’s there?’

‘Excellent salmon fishing,’ was DeBryn’s first and most honest response. And then, because that was unlikely to tempt the beautiful man sitting on his groin and stroking the contours of his chest: ‘And also good books, excellent Scotch. A record player.’ DeBryn swallowed as Morse shifted his weight. ‘A double bed.’

‘A bed, eh?’ Morse leaned down for a kiss, his long torso curling forwards, bracing himself up with forearms planted on the pillows.

‘Mm.’ DeBryn gripped Morse’s nape, holding him close as his other hand slid up Morse’s thigh, half-formed dirty fantasies playing out in the back of his mind. ‘An open fireplace too.’

‘Books? French wine? Fruit?’

Even here, even now, DeBryn couldn’t help but grin as he recognised the quote. ‘Yes, if you want it.’

Morse wasn’t finished. He kissed DeBryn’s smile briefly and persisted, a puckish tilt to his eyebrows: ‘Fine weather? A little music played out of doors?’

‘Perhaps.’ DeBryn’s voice shook, perilously close to giggling. Morse’s fingers trailed along his ribs, the lightness of their pressure bordering on tickling, and it was this as much as Morse’s rare playfulness that made him promise, reckless: ‘If you can get a piano out into the garden I’ll certainly see what I can manage.’

DeBryn was captivated by Morse in playful mood – but the next minute he groaned. Even as Morse spoke he was rolling his hips, pushing his erection firmly against DeBryn’s, and DeBryn’s toes curled, joy and desire twining in his chest until his heart strained beneath the delicious pull of it.

‘Yes.’ Morse smiled, temporarily carefree and years younger. ‘Of course. Whenever you like.’

‘It’ll have to be carefully managed,’ DeBryn warned, swallowing another moan the next instant as Morse scooped up the Vaseline and spread his knees to sit more firmly on DeBryn and began to rub himself slick and easy against DeBryn’s cock. ‘We can’t – _ah_ – be seen to be going off together.’

‘Alright.’ Morse kissed him again, harder this time, and DeBryn’s hands slid back to grip his arse, helping him into a steady rhythm. ‘Yes, alright. Tell me how you want to do it and we’ll fix it up. But for now...’

He reared up, reaching back to catch one of DeBryn’s hands and draw it down between their bodies, and for once DeBryn let himself simply exist in the moment, forgetting future cares in favour of the man in his arms eager for his kisses, the golden sunlight streaming through the window, the utterly perfect afternoon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set around the events of Sway

The first time – the first several times, in fact – DeBryn experienced the novel sensation, he didn’t recognise it for what it was.

In fairness he was rather preoccupied: kneeling by Vivian Haldane’s body, having just conducted his initial examination, and his professional absorption in his work gradually eroding under a curious mixture of pride and exasperation as he listened to Morse highlighting the flaws in DI Chard’s investigation. Morse had a first-class brain and Chard was mediocre at best, there was no doubt of that. But there were ways and ways to express dissent with the work of a senior officer, and this was most certainly not the tack to take.

_Have a care,_ DeBryn wanted to say. Would have said, if they had been alone and free to speak.

Instead he only looked down, listening to Thursday’s reproving tone and Morse’s irrepressible insistence.

‘None of whom was found wearing a wedding ring,’ Morse finished, with all the impatience of a man stating the painfully obvious.

As one, all gazes turned to Mrs Haldane’s left hand and DeBryn gently reached over to pick up her wrist and show her bare fingers. Of course the chap was right. 

At the time, his mind was so full of other things – chagrin at having missed the starkly evident fact, concern at this possibility of a new serial killer in Oxford, worry at DI Chard’s reaction when he found a lowly DC checking up on his work, and not just any DC but _Morse_ – that the subtle warmth blooming just under his ribs passed almost unnoticed.

\----------

The rest of the day was taken up with autopsy and the associated paperwork; if DeBryn spared a thought for the morning’s interaction it was only to shake his head over Morse’s impolitic words. One of these days his utter lack of deference would land him in trouble – not all inspectors were as accommodating as Thursday.

That afternoon brought a rare visit to Bright’s office, an interview that saw DeBryn sternly devoting every scrap of his brain to ignoring Morse’s lanky frame on the other side of the room. The previous week had been a long one, with the potential new serial killer setting the entire CID abuzz like an ants’ nest broken open, and their respective shifts had aligned in all the wrong ways so as to afford them barely any time alone. DeBryn had begun to feel the low, insistent throb of arousal when he saw Morse: inconvenient when at a crime scene or in the morgue, but dangerous in the extreme here, with these men.

And so DeBryn sat back in his chair and affected nonchalance, taking Bright’s offered cigarette and concealing himself behind a veil of smoke and Latinate medical terms, not relaxing until he was out of the room and safely on his way to the station car park.

Morse had turned on his heels when the meeting was over, barely waiting to be dismissed, and he followed DeBryn down to the car. Ostensibly escorting him out, as though DeBryn didn’t know the way perfectly well, but in reality hovering so close DeBryn could have reached out and taken his hand.

Out in the crisp November air DeBryn exhaled deeply, the weight of the place lifting from his shoulders. Morse had been silent the whole way out, none of his usual questions about the report, and as they crossed the car park DeBryn said lightly, ‘Penny for them.’

‘Just something that happened this morning.’ Beside him Morse shoved his hands in his pockets, frowning. ‘I was at Burridge’s, following up the lead on the stocking, and I overheard two men.’

Something in the tone of Morse’s voice, the set of his shoulders, made DeBryn’s heart sink. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Talking about a fellow who was–’ Morse glanced at DeBryn, ‘–you know.’

DeBryn’s heart sank. Abruptly, selfishly, he didn’t want to hear what Morse was about to say. Would give anything to avoid it, in fact, but he could hardly do that to the fellow and he merely set his jaw. ‘Yes.’

‘Laughing about him.’ Morse’s voice was low, tight with loathing. ‘They made it sound... like something to be ashamed of, something...’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn said quietly, half-sick with it, sparing them both the necessity of Morse finishing that sentence. ‘Yes, they do that.’

‘As though it was any of their business.’ Morse’s words fairly dripped venom.

Of course it wasn’t their business, but what difference did Morse imagine that made? Society was cruel, ready to fall on the weakest, those who were different, and tear them to pieces. For all his poetry and music, mankind hadn’t advanced so far past his primitive ancestors.

‘I...’ DeBryn searched for comfort, knowing there was none to offer.

At his shoulder Morse drew a deep breath, his stride slowing as they approached DeBryn’s Morris. His shoulders twitched, as though to shrug off the memory. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

DeBryn let him change the subject. ‘Only rarely. An indulgence in times of stress. And also when politically expedient.’

‘I see.’ His back to the passers-by, Morse watched DeBryn dig for his car keys with a smile teasing at his mouth. ‘And which was that? Surely you don’t find Bright stressful?

DeBryn raised his eyebrows, looking at Morse over the tops of his spectacles. ‘Morse.’

The nearest person was fully three cars away, but nonetheless DeBryn stepped close and lowered his voice. ‘You try having an interview with the CS with your male lover in the same room, without betraying either yourself or him by look or word. Do let me know how you get on.’

DeBryn turned away, but paused when Morse gripped his arm. ‘And political expediency?’

The curl of Morse’s narrow fingers on his forearm sent blood rushing to his cheeks. It was the nearest contact they had managed in days, and it took all his willpower not to turn his wrist and slide his fingers through the gaps in Morse’s.

‘Morse... Thomas...’ In lieu of being able to openly take his hand, DeBryn resorted to the nickname and watched, his heart lifting, as pleasure briefly touched the corners of Morse’s eyes and mouth. ‘When the CS offers you a cigarette, you take one.’

The shy smile vanished, brows lowering. ‘To curry favour?’

Of course he would see it like that, and DeBryn sighed as Morse’s hand dropped from his forearm. ‘Despite what you seem to believe, no man is an island. You could do worse than to cultivate your working relationships.’

But Morse had already turned away; no farewell, just his shoulders and jaw set in all-too-familiar stubborn lines, and DeBryn thinned his lips and got into his car. Morse was an exhausting fellow, no doubt of it; there was no-one else of DeBryn’s acquaintance who could push him so swiftly from despondency, to happiness, to exasperation. Who could stir such depth of emotion from him.

There was no doubt about it: DeBryn’s life would undoubtedly be more tranquil without Morse’s tempestuous presence, but even as the thought crossed his mind he shivered. The weak November sunlight did little to counteract the cool breeze and he quickly got into the car, closing the door firmly behind him, shutting out winter’s nip and superstitious fancies.

\----------

The mysteries of female undergarments were a closed book to DeBryn, which was exactly as he liked it. Having realised at a fairly young age where his preferences lay, he had never shared the obsessive interest of his teenaged schoolmates and it had afforded a certain amount of relief to know he would never be required to master the intricacies of lingerie.

Which made it rather unfortunate that this most recent death was at the hosiery counter of Burridge’s. And that a certain sharp-eyed detective constable was in attendance and – damn him thrice – had notice DeBryn’s discomfiture.

Morse at least had the sense to wait until Thursday and Bright had departed before sidling up to him. His feathers were still ruffled from the disagreement with Bright but his argument had lacked its usual vehemence; DeBryn spared a fanciful moment to imagine his advice had actually carried weight with Morse, before Morse stepped close and murmured, ‘Everything alright, Doctor?’

‘Perfectly so.’ If that question were to be posed at all then surely, given the quantity of blood splattered everywhere, it should be him asking Morse, not this way around. ‘Why?’

Morse arched a wicked eyebrow, tilting his head and shrugging in a way that managed to indicate the packets of silk stockings on the counter, the drawers behind DeBryn stocked with pastel-coloured, lacy underthings. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so uncomfortable around a corpse.’

The coroner’s men were over by the window, removing the body of the unfortunate Mr Parkis, and the nearest uniformed constable had wandered off. Fortunate, then, that there was no-one to see Morse’s proximity and DeBryn’s flush. He stared fixedly down at the blood smears on the counter, face distinctly warm. ‘Fine, I assure you.’

‘If you say so.’ Morse ran an idle finger along the edge of a packet of stockings – or possibly pantyhose, DeBryn didn’t care to look too closely and find out – and as the plastic crinkled faintly under his careless touch DeBryn twitched.

Morse had been with women before, of course; none of this would be a mystery to him. He had doubtless helped women – helped _Susan_ , his erstwhile fiancée – on and off with her stockings dozens of times. The thought of Morse kneeling at a woman’s feet, his long hands sliding sure and gentle up her thigh, set DeBryn squirming inwardly under the twin effects of arousal and a jealous possessiveness.

‘Stop making a mess of my crime scene,’ DeBryn snapped, his face warm and his collar chafing, fingers tingling with the urge to smack Morse’s hand away. Instead he twitched the basket out from under Morse’s fingers before loosening his duffel coat, far too heavy in the warmth of the heated store.

‘Alright.’ Morse shoved his hand in his coat pocket, his surprise audible, and shifted his weight. His shoulder brushed DeBryn’s.

‘I’m sure I heard you ordered to go and interview the staff,’ DeBryn said sharply, too hot and distinctly out of sorts. This close he could smell Morse’s soap, mingled with the familiar scent of him that DeBryn knew so well that, blindfolded, he could have picked Morse out of a line of men on that alone.

‘Yes.’ Beside him, Morse sighed. He shifted again and, beneath the counter and out of sight, his hand ghosted low across DeBryn’s back. ‘I imagine it’ll take me the rest of the morning. See you for lunch when I’m done?’

‘That would be–’ DeBryn cut himself off in the middle of a warm acceptance, his memory stirring. ‘Ah. I’m afraid I can’t, not today.’ He glanced at Morse, who hadn’t voiced his question but whose face spoke volumes. ‘I’ve some errands to run.’

‘I could join you,’ Morse said idly, as though it didn’t much matter either way. As though they hadn’t been trying for over a week now to snatch some time alone together.

It was tempting, but DeBryn shook his head before he could weaken. ‘That would be ill-advised.’

Under his breath, Morse scoffed. ‘You think you’re likely to bump into an officer while you’re returning your library books, or posting a parcel, or–’

‘Yes, Morse.’ DeBryn’s annoyance flared and he spoke louder than intended. A couple of heads turned and he swiftly lowered his voice. ‘Oxford is a small city, smaller than you think. Besides which–’ DeBryn looked back down at the counter, breathing deeply in an attempt to keep the colour from his cheeks, ‘–one of the errands is rather personal.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn risked a glance at him, seeing Morse’s gaze unfocus slightly, his brain working. ‘I’ve run out of...’ DeBryn faltered, utterly unable to voice it, equally unable to think of a suitable euphemism, even tucked away and relatively unwatched as they were. ‘You know what.’

Morse just stared at him, brow furrowed.

DeBryn gritted his teeth. How could Morse have forgotten the last time they were in bed together, how he had shifted under the slide of DeBryn’s hand up his inner thigh to part his legs and crook his knee just so. And DeBryn, desperate to give him what he so rarely asked for, had nearly wrenched the drawer clean out of the nightstand in a futile bid to find more than the meagre smears of Vaseline left in the jar in his hand.

God knew it had been a while for them, but it hadn’t been that long, and the memory made arousal stir low in his stomach until a cough from Morse brought DeBryn back to the present.

‘Personal items,’ he said, half-under his breath, ‘one in particular... Morse, I need to visit a chemist’s.’ One on the other side of Oxford to Cowley General, for preference. And pile half a dozen additional, unnecessary items on top of the one he really wanted, trying to make it look like an afterthought rather than the main reason for his visit.

Morse’s sudden comprehension was obvious, at least to DeBryn’s eyes. Pink stained his cheeks, and DeBryn caught a flash of hunger in his gaze before he dropped his eyes. ‘I see.’ Only long acquaintance allowed DeBryn to hear the faintest tremor in Morse’s voice. ‘This evening, then?’

Unable to look at Morse while they were having this conversation, DeBryn turned his gaze away and found them the objects of attention from a young constable. Doubtless wondering what the pathologist had found to share in such detail with a lowly DC that he hadn’t divulged to the CS, and DeBryn returned his stare grimly until the fellow looked away.

‘No. Working,’ DeBryn bit out, suddenly – desperately – wanting Morse to go and do his job and stop hanging over his shoulder in such obvious intimacy.

Morse sighed impatiently. His breath ghosted over DeBryn’s ear, almost a caress, and DeBryn twisted his face away, biting his lip against the uncomfortable sensation of exposure. The coroner’s men were approaching and, acutely aware of how close Morse was standing, DeBryn made a show of rounding on him.

‘ _No_ , Morse. May I remind you that preliminary findings are given at the pathologist’s discretion, not the wish of DCs, and all information has already been shared with CS Bright, as you are well aware.’

Morse fell back a step, eyes wide and shocked and achingly blue, hurt, but DeBryn hardened his heart. ‘Anything further will follow after the autopsy, and pestering me will not achieve that any faster. Now I suggest you go and do your job, constable, and leave me to get on with mine.’

By this point the coroner’s men were standing off to one side, not bothering to conceal their smirks. Morse’s reputation had spread beyond the OCP, and while it pained DeBryn to speak to him so, it would do no harm to create the impression of mild animosity between the pathologist and the too-clever young DC.

Under DeBryn’s eyes Morse’s face flushed deeper, his thunderous temper stirring, and DeBryn gripped the edge of the counter and forced himself to remain impassive, rather than beg forgiveness as every cell in his body was urging him to do.

‘Fine,’ Morse snapped, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat and glaring. ‘Thank you, _Doctor_.’

With that he turned on his heel and stalked off, calling the waiting PC to his side with an impatient jerk of his head, and DeBryn turned away from the stiff line of Morse’s back and his offended stride.

‘Yes?’ He waved the coroner’s men over. ‘What is it?’

He was so terse as to verge on outright rudeness, but DeBryn could hardly bring himself to care. Not when the last of his good humour was disappearing around the corner in a flick of grey coat-tails and fiery hair, and as DeBryn gave his orders to the men a queer, breathless ache sat low in his stomach. An ache, and a palpable pull towards Morse’s retreating figure, a desire to take him home and sit on the sofa with Morse’s head in his lap, kissing him and stroking his hair until the noise of the world faded away and all that was left were bright locks twined around his fingers and Morse’s sharp profile gone soft and relaxed.

Instead DeBryn turned back to his work, stripping off his coat and rolling his shirtsleeves up. His was not a profession that afforded the luxury of daydreaming, no matter the circumstances; but although he breathed deeply, he couldn’t ease the ache low in his chest. He grimaced, rubbing the heel of his hand over his ribs. Indigestion, surely, from bolting his breakfast that morning when he received the call-out to Burridge’s. Nothing more.

\----------

After such an exchange in the morning, the soft tap at his office door that evening caused DeBryn a moment’s severe confusion. It sounded like Morse’s knock, but it couldn’t be: Morse was well aware he was working, and after that morning Morse would hardly seek him out, with his pride stung from a public dressing-down.

‘Enter,’ DeBryn called, and blinked when – a moment later – there appeared the face of the last person he had expected to see.

‘Morse?’

‘Doctor DeBryn.’

Morse stepped into the small room, closing the door carefully behind him.

‘Is everything alright?’ DeBryn glanced at his desk phone, silent all evening. ‘Don’t tell me there’s another.’

Morse was already shaking his head. ‘No.’

He approached the desk, his steps hesitant, and DeBryn frowned at him. ‘If you want the Parkis autopsy report,’ he began, his tone warning Morse that it had been an early start and a long day, ‘then I’ve already phoned through my preliminary findings and there are limits to what I can achieve, Morse, even for–’

‘It’s not that.’ Morse twitched his shoulders impatiently, darting a glance at the closed door and the darkened mortuary beyond. ‘Are we alone?’

‘Yes.’ Pointing out the presence of several cadavers in the steel drawers wouldn’t do anything to settle a man who was already fiddling uneasily with a pencil from DeBryn’s desk. DeBryn glanced pointedly at the stack of paperwork he still needed to complete before he could even consider making his way home. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

A couple of steps brought Morse to the edge of DeBryn’s desk and he perched a hip on it, making DeBryn lean back in his chair and look up to meet Morse’s eyes.

‘Not really,’ Morse said quietly. He looked washed-out, the light from DeBryn’s desk lamp falling on his face in such a way as to highlight the dark shadows beneath his eyes. ‘I just wanted to stop by. To see you.’

As simply as that, DeBryn was no longer the resident pathologist struggling with expectations and impatience, but just a man in desperate want of a quiet evening at home with his lover. He sighed, reaching out to brush the backs of Morse’s fingers when Morse rested a hand on his desk.

‘Likewise.’ DeBryn turned his hand upwards and Morse stroked cool fingertips into the cup of his palm.

‘You’re so busy this week,’ Morse murmured, his glance taking in the stacks of paper, the pile in DeBryn’s In tray that – despite the evening in the office – was still significantly higher than his Out tray.

‘Kemp is on holiday, hence my rather heavier workload. And of course there are the usual misadventures.’ DeBryn shrugged. ‘Despite what certain poets would have you believe, April is not necessarily the cruellest month.’

Morse smiled faintly, his expression softening and DeBryn added, in a rush, ‘I’m sorry for snapping. Earlier.’

Morse waved a hand, brushing it away. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

It did, though. DeBryn was often sharp with the other officers, was known for it, but not to Morse, never to Morse. Save that such an obvious partiality was rather the problem, wasn’t it.

While DeBryn was still worrying at his lip, trying to find words to explain, Morse flexed his hand and pushed his fingers through DeBryn’s.

‘I actually came to see if you could spare me fifteen minutes,’ Morse said.

DeBryn glanced down at their joined hands. ‘Morse...’

He may entertain lurid fantasies featuring Morse and the sofa in his small office but that didn’t mean he wanted to put them into practice here and now. But Morse shook his head, his throat working and a corner of his mouth curling up. ‘Not for... that. Just. Will you?’

Curiosity piqued, DeBryn glanced at his watch, and then at his desk. A quarter of an hour more or less wouldn’t make much difference to that lot, and he pushed his chair back slightly, attention focussed on Morse. ‘Very well. What is it?’

‘Not here.’ Morse stood. ‘Come with me?’

At DeBryn’s rueful glance at his desk Morse added, coaxingly, ‘Fifteen minutes, that’s all. Perhaps twenty, if you’re enjoying it.’

He hadn’t let go of DeBryn’s hand, and DeBryn let the insistent pull tug him up out of his chair and out of his office, pausing only to grab his jacket from the back of his chair before giving himself up to Morse’s fey mood.

In the public corridors Morse dropped his hand, and DeBryn assumed his best put-upon expression as he followed Morse up several flights of stairs, until they reached a small door DeBryn couldn’t ever recall noticing before.

Morse glanced along the corridor, deserted in both directions, before producing a key from his pocket, opening the door, and waving DeBryn through.

The final flight of stairs were narrow and poorly lit, and DeBryn was on the verge of halting and demanding to know what Morse was playing at, when Morse opened the door at the top and stepped through, and DeBryn followed to find himself on the hospital’s roof.

‘Good Lord.’ The night air was crisp and cold as white wine, the sharp smell of winter in the air and the stars distant pinpricks of light in a velvet sky, and DeBryn turned slowly, taking in the view.

It was full moon, and the spires and steeples of Oxford gleamed palely under it, looking for all the world like an enchanted kingdom, while out towards the horizon Wytham Woods were a dark blur. For an instant he wished he had time to go down to the river, as much to see it under this pale light as for the prospect of night fishing. Without the bustle and activity of the day it would be a different world.

The light was so bright he could almost have read a book by it, had he been so inclined, and he glanced at Morse. ‘Do you know, in all the years I’ve worked here I don’t think I’ve ever been up here before.’

‘Hmm.’

DeBryn looked more sharply, prompted by memories of another rooftop. ‘Not light-headed, are you? I don’t fancy the job of carrying you back down those stairs – unlikely we’d both make it in one piece.’

‘I’m fine,’ Morse huffed. ‘Just don’t go near the edge.’ He was rummaging in his coat pocket, and produced a small bottle of Scotch that he handed to DeBryn. ‘Here.’

DeBryn raised his eyebrows. ‘What am I to – oh.’

A pair of small glasses were next, nested inside each other, and Morse held them out for DeBryn to pour a generous measure into each.

‘I was going to ask if you wanted to go to one of the displays this evening,’ Morse said quietly, as he handed a glass to DeBryn before capping the Scotch and stowing it in his coat. ‘There’s supposed to be a good one in Christ Church Meadow.’

He touched his glass to DeBryn’s lightly before drinking and DeBryn followed suit, gasping a little as the Scotch burned a warm trail down to his stomach.

‘But you’re working,’ Morse continued, ‘and I don’t even know if you care for fireworks anyway.’

‘I like them,’ DeBryn said firmly, although at that moment – with Morse so close yet not quite meeting his eyes, tugging at his ear in that uncertain way he had – DeBryn would have agreed to liking anything at all. ‘They’re a fairly harmless amusement as things go, and I can see the appeal of the colour and spectacle.’ He paused, hoping to raise a smile. ‘I do listen to Wagner, after all.’

_And am engaged in intimate relations with you,_ DeBryn added silently to himself, as Morse came to stand next to him, tilting his wrist and checking his watch.

‘It should have started by now,’ he muttered, shifting restlessly, his shoulder brushing warmly against DeBryn’s. ‘Perhaps we’ve missed it– oh.’

A splash of brilliant green burst in the sky, away over the rooftops, and Morse fell silent. A shower of red sparks followed, then white, and DeBryn watched in appreciative silence until the icy fingers of the night air sliding under his collar and up his cuffs drew a shiver from him, despite Morse’s warmth against his left side. Foolish, to have come out in just a jacket on such a night. But when he agreed to follow Morse this was hardly where he expected to end up; Morse’s invitation had put him more in mind of a cup of substandard tea in the hospital’s cafeteria.

‘You’re cold,’ Morse said suddenly, and DeBryn turned his head to find Morse watching not the display overhead, but him. ‘We didn’t pick up your overcoat.’

‘No matter.’ DeBryn shoved his empty hand in his trouser pocket, clenching his icy fingerends into the curl of his palm.

‘Here.’ Morse’s hand flew to his coat buttons, starting to unfasten them.

‘Don’t you dare,’ DeBryn said tartly, unsure whether to be amused or disconcerted at being treated like a delicate female in need of chivalry. ‘I’m far better able to stand the cold than you.’

Morse paused briefly before continuing, and as DeBryn drew breath to protest again Morse side-stepped behind him, tucking himself firmly against DeBryn’s back.

‘Like this, then.’ Morse’s voice was low in his ear, his hand drawing the open folds of his overcoat around DeBryn, and DeBryn’s protest died in his mouth.

The coat was nowhere near big enough to close around both of them, of course. But Morse’s chest and stomach were warm against DeBryn’s back, even through his jacket and pullover, and Morse tugged the open sides around DeBryn and rested his chin on DeBryn’s shoulder, winding an arm around his stomach almost as an afterthought.

‘Seems only fair, after all,’ Morse murmured into DeBryn’s ear, and DeBryn took a drink of Scotch, warmed both inside and out.

‘This wasn’t what I was thinking of when I bought it,’ DeBryn said dryly, trying to mask the intense pleasure curling through his chest, ‘but I suppose I can’t fault your initiative.’

But he covered Morse’s hand on his stomach with his own, as a scatter of white light briefly eclipsed the stars.

Such a good-quality winter overcoat had been expensive. But DeBryn had watched Morse hunch his shoulders in his thin mackintosh for weeks – DeBryn’s irritation rising in inverse proposition to the falling thermometer – before it dawned on him that Morse, so ready with money for concert tickets and records, books and Scotch, would consider a winter overcoat an unnecessary luxury. Eventually DeBryn had spent an afternoon shopping and shoved the brown paper parcel at Morse on his visit to DeBryn’s house that evening.

‘Here,’ DeBryn had said brusquely, as Morse clutched the unwieldy thing and stared at him in confusion. ‘Since I’ve missed your birthday. Or so I assume, given that you’ve apparently never had one in all the time I’ve known you. It’s not the twenty-ninth of February, is it?’

‘Twenty-first of July,’ Morse had said faintly, setting the parcel aside and staring at DeBryn in utter bafflement. ‘What on earth is it?’

DeBryn barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Of course Morse had let his own birthday go by without remark, hadn’t thought that the man he regularly shared a bed with might like to know.

Instead DeBryn turned away from Morse’s confusion, peculiarly nervous. He strode over to the book case, fussing with a mis-shelved volume of Isherwood. ‘It’s non-returnable, so I hope it fits.’

That hadn’t been entirely true. But Morse could be oddly touchy about money; DeBryn had seen him in the pub, on the rare occasions DeBryn joined OCP for a drink, and had seen how Morse was slow to stand his round. But Morse was equally reluctant to arrive empty-handed at DeBryn’s house, bringing a book to borrow, or something to drink or, more rarely, the gift of a new record. And not at all a record DeBryn himself would have chosen; he had the distinct impression Morse was quietly subjecting him to a rough sort of musical education.

Morse hadn’t bothered to try it on, he had merely unwrapped the parcel and stammered his thanks, flushing pink. But he had gone at once to hang it carefully on DeBryn’s coat stand, and in bed that night he had kissed DeBryn for a long time, one warm hand on his nape, before bringing him breakfast in bed the following morning, and DeBryn supposed he was given to understand Morse liked it well enough.

A banger went off in the street below, louder than the distant fireworks, and Morse’s flinch jolted DeBryn’s spine. DeBryn squeezed his forearm, rubbing his fingers absently over the thick grey wool, and tried to distract him with the question nagging at him: ‘How did you find your way up here?’

Morse leaned back for a moment, taking a drink of Scotch, before resettling his chin on DeBryn’s shoulder. ‘I asked one of the caretakers for the keys. Said it was a routine building security check.’

Even chewing his lip, DeBryn couldn’t smother the amusement in his voice. ‘Really, Morse.’

Morse’s shoulders twitched in a shrug. ‘I’ll have a look around before I go.’

Morse’s arm was firm around his waist, his fingers curling into the soft wool of DeBryn’s pullover. DeBryn touched the back of Morse’s hand, tracing the long metacarpals back to his wrist, and pushing his fingertips up under Morse’s cuff to feel the start of soft hair on his lean forearm.

‘One of my neighbours works here,’ Morse said idly, his fingers rubbing at DeBryn’s stomach. ‘As a nurse. She’s nice.’

Tightly pressed together, DeBryn hadn’t a hope of hiding how this quietly offered opinion sent a tendril of uncertainty uncoiling through his chest and he drew a deep breath, deliberately loosening his shoulders. He could hardly start to bristle like an offended cat each time Morse mentioned a female acquaintance, not unless he wanted to appear ridiculous. The incident in the pub had been, oh, months ago now, and that girl at the British Imperial factory even longer. Almost a year, in fact; he had vague memories of autumn leaves crackling underfoot as they exhumed the girl’s body in the woods.

‘ _Max_.’ DeBryn jumped slightly as Morse’s cold nose brushed his ear.

He waited for a reproof, for a sulky complaint at him dredging up old offences. Instead Morse’s hand slid down to push up under his pullover, pressing flat to DeBryn’s stomach through his shirt.

‘Inspector Thursday was asking me, the other day, whether I’d met anyone.’

A natural enough question to ask a young man. Especially coming from a family man who, DeBryn rather suspected, saw himself as something between mentor and father figure.

There was nothing DeBryn could say to that and so he held his tongue, but Morse pressed his lips briefly to the tender skin behind DeBryn’s ear and continued, ‘I told him I was perfectly happy just as I was.’

It was a comforting thing to hear from a lover, and yet DeBryn’s mouth twisted unhappily. Perfectly happy with sneaking around, with always checking for a locked door between them and the rest of the world before reaching for each other, with having to either go on dates set up by well-meaning friends, or invent ever-new excuses to avoid them.

Morse seemed to be expecting some sort of reply and DeBryn managed a nod, a resolute squeeze of Morse’s forearm. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

Morse’s arm tightened around him, and there it was again, that fluttering ache he had experienced watching Morse walk away from him that morning. Save that this time Morse was right here, trailing delicate patterns over DeBryn’s stomach, his soft breath tickling DeBryn’s ear in a gentle rhythm that DeBryn would have been utterly content to feel all night.

For a wild moment DeBryn would have given all he owned to make the world other than it was. For one of them to have been born female, or even – his stomach twisted – for it simply not to matter that they were two fellows together. There were rumours of a bill that was to be put to Parliament, but that was no use, public opinion was notoriously slow to change and it was hardly likely to happen in their lifetimes. He had more chance of changing their sex simply for the wishing of it, save that it was hard to imagine Morse without his lean chest and lanky frame, and DeBryn was well aware he himself was no oil painting; he would have made the most appallingly homely female.

It left him restless, and a touch reckless, and DeBryn turned in Morse’s hold to cup his hand over Morse’s nape and draw him down into a kiss. Morse went, with a faintly surprised noise, tightening his arm around DeBryn’s back and quickly dropping his empty glass in his pocket to cradle DeBryn’s face in a cold palm as Morse returned his kiss.

At first it was simply warm, a mere gentle press of mouths, but DeBryn moved his lips against Morse’s, parting them slightly, and Morse murmured and the kiss turned into something more insistent, hungrier, until the soft tip of Morse’s tongue brushed the inside of DeBryn’s lips and he sighed and tilted his head, stroking his palm down Morse’s spine to the small of his back, pressing their hips closer. Until Morse broke away to nose along DeBryn’s jaw, biting lightly, and DeBryn’s eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into the sensation, shivering.

This was enough to get him hard. It had been such a long week, and Morse’s warm kisses sent arousal shivering over his skin. And if he nudged forward it was obvious that Morse was similarly affected, and when Morse’s hand stroked up under the back of his jacket to draw lazy circles in the small of his back, DeBryn groaned through his teeth. How he longed to press Morse back into the nearest shadowy corner, open the fellow’s trousers, and sink to his knees.

But, after resting his forehead briefly on Morse’s firm shoulder, DeBryn mustered his self-discipline. ‘No. Come along. We ought to get back. But perhaps you...’ DeBryn pushed a hand inside Morse’s coat, rubbing his waist. ‘You could come over to the house. Later.’

Morse’s voice held real regret, and more than a touch of frustrated arousal. ‘I can’t. I’m on call from six o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh.’ Just his luck, and DeBryn sighed in frustration and tried to step away, to smooth down his rumpled hair and straighten his jacket.

But Morse murmured in disagreement, disinclined to let go. ‘Come over to my digs instead.’

If only he could accept. ‘Morse, I’m–’

‘Working, yes, I know.’ Warm lips rested against his temple. ‘I meant after. You have the keys, don’t you.’

DeBryn did. They sat on his key ring next to his own house keys, a silent but tangible reminder of permitted intimacy that warmed him down to his toes each time his fingertips brushed them.

‘It won’t be until late,’ DeBryn warned, even as Morse’s lips moved to his hairline and he turned his face, seeking another kiss. ‘I wasn’t joking about the amount of work I still have to do. You’ll likely have already gone to bed.’

A soft huff of amused breath, a brief kiss dropped on his mouth. ‘Yes, exactly.’

Thoroughly distracted, DeBryn blinked. ‘What?’

Morse’s voice was low, full of nameless promise. ‘I’ll already be in bed.’

All the desire DeBryn had been firmly pushing down flared sharp and aching in the pit of his stomach at the thought: Morse waiting for him in bed, warm and sleep-flushed, naked and already half-aroused at the promise of sex, sheets tangled around long limbs. ‘I see.’

It was risky. They would have to be quiet. And the following morning there was a chance of being caught; he would have to set a monstrously early alarm and ensure he left well before the other lodgers could be up and about.

But when set against the inducement of Morse, warm and coaxing, then such concerns paled into insignificant and DeBryn swallowed, his mouth wet with hunger. ‘Very well.’

Morse smiled against his cheek, pleased.

Descending the stairs was an entirely different affair to the ascent: DeBryn was warm from head to toe, despite his hands half-frozen and the icy tip of his nose. At the mortuary door, mindful of the quiet presence of cleaning staff working their way along the corridor, Morse bid him farewell with a formality of voice and expression that was entirely _Doctor DeBryn_ but eyes that spoke of _Max_ and _Later_.

With such enticement awaiting him then DeBryn set to with renewed effort and, when he finally capped his pen for the night, he had the consolation of seeing the pile in his In tray noticeably smaller.

On Morse’s street he parked some distance away from his house, and the slam of the car door seemed loud in the dark street. DeBryn stepped around the bags of rubbish at the kerbside, the cracked paving slabs, to fumble with the unfamiliar keys at the shabby door, and tiptoed up the stairs. When he stepped into Morse’s tiny bedsit he closed the door as gently as he could.

Morse had left a lamp burning on the table by the door, next to a stack of post and a few library books awaiting return, and DeBryn slipped his boots off. There was neither sight nor sound of him, and when DeBryn walked silently through into the bedroom, heart pounding in anticipation, he halted and shook his head in resigned amusement.

The stress of the past week had caught up with the chap: Morse was burrowed into the blankets, a bare arm and shoulder poking out, deeply asleep, and DeBryn sighed to himself. So much for tantalising promises murmured in between lingering kisses.

Yet when DeBryn climbed under the covers Morse turned, barely awake, reaching for him and drawing him close, sliding a warm arm over DeBryn’s chilled flesh and DeBryn sighed again, this time in relaxation. The bed was narrow enough for one, for two – and both fully grown men, at that – it was almost ridiculous. The mattress was cheap, the springs sagging in the middle, and DeBryn wriggled a little, his back already protesting.

But Morse snuffled into DeBryn’s nape, his knees finding the hollows behind DeBryn’s and his stomach tucking warmly against DeBryn’s spine and DeBryn closed his eyes. His body still thrummed with unslaked arousal and his back would give him hell tomorrow, yet at that moment he wouldn’t have exchanged his sleeping quarters for the finest suite at the Ritz.

\----------

The following evening, when Morse walked into the tiny kitchen – its windows wide open against the stinking gas fumes – he gave such a low groan that DeBryn looked at him sharply, half-readying himself to catch him if Morse keeled over. Looked with a touch of surprise too, because this wasn’t the messiest death Morse had seen by a long shot, and he had kept his feet with those others. But Morse only passed his head across his forehead, face weary, and DeBryn sighed and bent once more to his task. When he next looked up, Morse had gone.

The classic signs of asphyxiation and patent absence of any struggle made diagnosis a straightforward affair, coupled with the fact of the police having broken the door down to gain access. So DeBryn was surprised when he left the sad little flat to find Morse leaning against his car.

‘Morse.’ DeBryn opened the boot to stow his kit, giving Morse a curious glance, mindful of Strange and Jakes nearby, the police officers and coroner’s men milling about. ‘Fairly certain to be suicide.’ Out of the corner of his eye DeBryn saw Strange approaching; he shut the boot and turned to address them both. ‘Signs are classic. I’ll confirm in my report but, barring anything unexpected, I feel confident in saying this was self-inflicted.’

‘Yes, I know. There was a note.’ Morse’s reply bordered on interruption, and DeBryn gave him a sharp look.

‘I see.’ DeBryn shrugged, suddenly weary. ‘Then I doubt I’ll find anything to alter my initial opinion.’ He nodded at them both. ‘Gentlemen.’

He fished his keys out of his coat pocket, walking around to unlock the driver’s door. Gas fumes still clung faintly to his coat, he would have to drive home with the window open.

‘Ready, matey?’ Strange sounded more than ready to be on his way, jingling the keys. Well, it was hardly a night to dawdle outside.

‘No, you go on,’ Morse said, lingering close to DeBryn’s car instead of falling into step beside Strange. ‘I’ve something I want to check with DeBryn; I’ll make my own way home.’

DeBryn paused in the act of getting into his car, glancing at Morse over the roof. Did the fellow have any idea how he sounded? The intimacy he had just implied?

But perhaps DeBryn’s concern was excessive, for Strange barely blinked at it. He seemed in no hurry to hang about – ‘Right then, see you tomorrow’ – and he was gone in an instant.

Alone, Morse turned back to meet DeBryn’s enquiring gaze.

‘Was there something else?’ DeBryn reached for an apposite quote, but found himself unusually short. He was in no humour for it that evening; the flat had been forlorn, full of the signs of a solitary life and a lonely death. ‘Something I missed?’

‘No.’ Morse rubbed wearily at his nape, his face tense and overwrought.

Having successfully dispatched Strange, Morse didn’t seem to be in any hurry to voice whatever had driven him this far. DeBryn had expected a request to come over to his house, or at least a question or two about the scene. But instead, as he watched, Morse’s shoulders hunched slightly, retreating from the world into the folds of his overcoat.

DeBryn rubbed his hands, chafing warmth back into his fingers. ‘Whatever it is, do you think we might do this out of the elements?’

Morse flicked a glance at him. ‘We’ve missed last orders at the pub.’

The scene was nearly done, official cars peeling away to leave the place looking as though nothing had happened. DeBryn lowered his voice. ‘My house, then.’

Odd that Morse should hesitate to invite himself over.

‘I won’t...’ Morse looked away, ducking his head and rubbing at his nape. ‘You’ll find me poor company,’ he said obliquely, in what DeBryn suspected was a euphemism for being too wretchedly tired for any of their usual recreational activities.

In response DeBryn shrugged, awkward, attempting to convey that he was equally cold and tired. And that the idea of Morse, sitting in the armchair on the other side of the hearth, cradling a glass of Scotch or a book or listening to his music, slowly unwinding after the case, held a quiet appeal that was no less intense for not being remotely sexual.

In reply Morse ducked his head. Presumably intended as agreement, and DeBryn got in and leaned across to open the passenger door, turning the heater up at the sight of Morse’s hands reddened with cold.

Morse was silent on the drive home, and once inside he hung up his overcoat without a word. He was in DeBryn’s living room, a record pulled half-out of its sleeve, before he stirred and glanced at DeBryn. ‘May I?’

DeBryn had abandoned the shedding of his own overcoat in favour of watching Morse’s restless drift towards the record player, his hands stilling on the fastenings as he leaned against the doorframe. Now he waved a hand. ‘Of course you may. Make yourself at home.’

Morse slid the record out of its sleeve and laid it on the turntable, gentle as a mother with her child, and as Morse’s ears pinked self-consciously under DeBryn’s regard. DeBryn turned away, shrugging off his duffel coat, as the opening strains of something orchestral drifted into the hall.

By the time DeBryn had removed coat and boots, he walked into the living room to find Morse in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, legs sprawled towards the cold hearth, a glass of Scotch cradled in one hand.

DeBryn poured himself his own glass before taking the armchair opposite, studying Morse’s profile until the sharp blue eyes turned to him.

‘There was no additional point, was there.’ DeBryn kept his voice gentle. There was something eating at the fellow, that much was plain, but pushing him was like trying to push a mule.

But even such an oblique approach drew no reply, for Morse’s gaze slid away and he made a non-committal noise. 

The music rose and fell, and DeBryn sipped at his Scotch. He hadn’t Morse’s knowledge and consequently he hadn’t a hope of identifying such a comparatively obscure piece without the assistance of the record sleeve. But something about the measured cadences set his mind on a certain track.

‘Bach?’ he murmured, watching Morse’s face, the faint lines of strain at eyes and mouth.

‘I find it good for introspection,’ Morse said.

He glanced at DeBryn, who gave him a dry look. ‘I shouldn’t have thought you needed any assistance there.’

A half-smile was his only reply. DeBryn drank another mouthful of Scotch and, as its warmth slid down to his stomach, ventured, ‘I gather congratulations are in order.’

When Morse only looked at him, DeBryn added: ‘The resolution of the strangler case.’

‘Ah.’ Morse shrugged, slouching deeper into his chair. ‘Words travels fast.’

DeBryn snorted gently. ‘Policemen gossip like fishwives.’

A bittersweet triumph, presumably. A killer off the streets, but that persistent thought that one should have managed it sooner, before the second and third victims.

When Morse spoke again, DeBryn had expected some musings on the nature of life and death, or justice. Perhaps an apt bit of Housman. Instead Morse asked, ‘Do you think it’s ever right – hypothetically, I mean – to conceal evidence?’

DeBryn’s lips parted, surprised. ‘Excuse me?’

‘The past few months...’ Morse frowned into the empty fireplace as though it held the answers to all riddles, pressing his glass lightly between his palms. ‘Things have been going missing from the evidence lock-up. Only small things, you understand. Things that could have been lost or overlooked. But–’ he paused, shaking his head in frustration, ‘–I know it’s more than that, there’s something going on. I can feel it.’ He stirred, gathering his thoughts. ‘But I’m not talking about that, I mean. Well.’

Morse broke off, gulping at his Scotch and addressing his words not to DeBryn, but to the hearthrug between them. ‘Withholding something from the logs in the first place. Not to conceal a crime,’ he added quickly, darting a glance at DeBryn, ‘but just... not logging everything.’

It was unlike Morse to speak at such length while actually saying so little, and DeBryn sipped his own drink, gathering his thoughts. ‘What sort of thing would you be withholding?’

Morse’s pensive frown cracked, and he looked briefly wretched. ‘I can’t say. It’s not my secret to tell.’

DeBryn could only narrow his eyes at Morse. ‘We _are_ speaking hypothetically.’ He bit his lip briefly. ‘Aren’t we?’

In response Morse only sighed, rubbing at his temple – and, not incidentally, hiding his face – and DeBryn swallowed the words that rose to his lips and drank his Scotch instead. Introspection indeed.

‘Would it really be so bad to withhold it?’ It was not unlike approaching a wild creature, resisting the urge to rush in, and DeBryn looked at his hearthrug and watched Morse out of the corner of his eye. ‘What would be the consequences if you didn’t?’

At this Morse met his eyes.

‘A good man’s life would be ruined,’ he said quietly, but a moment later shook his head. ‘But that’s not the point. We’re supposed to uphold the law, to pursue justice without fear or favour.’

DeBryn frowned. ‘You said there was no crime. So what justice are you searching for?’

‘I...’ Morse faltered.

‘Morse.’ DeBryn hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ‘I think there’s the letter of the law, and then there’s the spirit of it. And that the two do not always align, as you and I well know.’ DeBryn looked at Morse pointedly, a look that – he hoped – encompassed the pair of them: two men who at this point knew each other intimately enough to be arrested ten times over.

‘I also think you’re a good man,’ he added, trying to get Morse to lift his head and look at him. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t do such a thing unless you felt it right, and I trust your judgement.’

In the lamplight, the shadows under Morse’s eyes looked more pronounced than ever. For a man who had just solved a high-profile serial killer case he looked anguished, and DeBryn made a swift decision. Getting to his feet, he crossed the space between them to take Morse’s wrist and gently tug him out of his chair.

‘I’m not...’ But Morse obeyed the silent pull. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Indulging myself.’ DeBryn made for the sofa, sitting in the middle of it and pulling Morse down to sit by him.

‘How so?’

DeBryn took Morse’s glass out of his hand and set it aside on the coffee table. He touched Morse’s thigh, nerves fluttering lightly in his stomach. ‘Lie down.’

As DeBryn had feared, Morse baulked at the suggestion, his brows lowering and lips tightening. ‘I’m not in need of _coddling_.’

‘I know.’ DeBryn persisted, curling his fingers against Morse’s thigh and fighting his own reticence. He tried to smile. ‘I’m not asking for you. I’m asking for myself.’

Morse jerked slightly, surprise wiping the truculence from his face. He looked into DeBryn’s face searchingly and DeBryn bit his lip and met Morse’s gaze, holding himself steady against all his natural impulses to flinch, to turn away and hide his expression from this man, to whom an unguarded face was an open book.

Heaven knew what he saw in DeBryn’s face, but it was enough to make him heel off his shoes and, slowly, swing his legs up on the sofa and recline to rest his head in DeBryn’s lap.

DeBryn exhaled shakily, his hand coming to rest in Morse’s hair.

‘What’s this in aid of?’ Morse asked softly, his eyes closed.

‘I’ve just...’ DeBryn shrugged helplessly, grateful to be spared further scrutiny. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this for the past week.’

‘Hmm.’ Morse tilted his face up and DeBryn carded his fingers through the thick waves of his hair, rubbing firmly at Morse’s temples, encouraged when Morse’s lips softened.

For a minute the only sound in the room was the tick of the clock, and the barely audible whisper of DeBryn’s fingers in Morse’s hair. The warmth of Morse’s head on his thighs and the softness of Morse’s hair under his hand combined with the Scotch to loosen a knot in DeBryn’s chest, a knot he hadn’t been aware of until it slowly began to dissipate.

‘Don’t...’ he murmured, his tongue unguarded in the dim, quiet space drawn about them both, ‘don’t take too much on yourself. People are responsible for their own choices.’ Morse made no reply; perhaps silence could be taken as encouragement, or at least, acquiescence, and DeBryn dared to add, ‘Thomas.’

This raised a smile, a soft curl to the corner of Morse’s mouth. ‘That afternoon in the garden.’

No need to ask which afternoon he meant, despite the numerous hours they had whiled away in DeBryn’s garden during what had been a golden summer.

Now the summer was well and truly over. Morse’s freckles had faded entirely from his nose and cheeks, and his skin had lost the faintly golden cast he had acquired by the end of the season. Yet the memory stayed fresh and perfect in DeBryn’s mind, and he murmured, ‘ _Da mi basia mille_.’

Morse’s lips softened into a real smile. ‘Have you seen that cat again?’

‘Now and then.’ DeBryn drew his thumb across a pale eyebrow. No need to tell Morse that he had let the thing shelter in the kitchen during last Wednesday’s torrential rainstorm. Or that scraps of leftover fish or mince sometimes found their way onto the saucer outside the back door. 

Morse sighed, contriving to tilt his head into DeBryn’s hand. ‘I should let you get to bed. You must be tired, the week you’ve had.’

He was. In fact he was exhausted, ready to let his head tip back and fall asleep right there on the sofa, but the lines had smoothed out of Morse’s eyes and DeBryn only murmured, ‘In a while.’

Despite the weariness gnawing at him, despite his palpable longing for his warm bed upstairs, DeBryn wound his fingers into Morse’s hair and watched the faint quiver of Morse’s chest as his heart beat steadily and strongly, and felt very much as though he were holding something precious cradled in his palms.

\----------

Finally, after over a week of heavy workloads and not enough free time, they had succeeded in snatching an evening alone together where neither of them were working, or even on call, and the results had been memorable.

DeBryn lay among the mauled pillows and sweat-damp sheets of his bed, catching his breath as his heart raced and the ecstasy of orgasm melted into a delicious heaviness in his hips and thighs, creeping outward to render him utterly boneless with relaxation. He closed his eyes, stretching briefly, and gave a sigh that turned into a soft groan at the end.

Astride his thighs Morse shuddered, sagging limply down to collapse half on top of DeBryn, who draped an arm across Morse’s heaving back as he gasped for breath.

He had been curiously restless that evening. Turning up at DeBryn’s door and pacing about his living room, picking up books and setting them aside, putting a record to play before changing it for another after a mere minute or two. He seemed to be looking for something, and not finding it in Keats, or Verdi, or the half-drunk glass of Scotch abandoned on the side table; from his seat on the sofa, DeBryn had watched with increasing curiosity until Morse finally approached him and climbed into his lap to kiss him.

From that point things had escalated. Morse had all but dragged DeBryn upstairs to tumble them both into bed; he had taken DeBryn into his mouth, and after the enforced abstinence it had been all DeBryn could do to hold out for a reasonable length of time – face flushed and thighs trembling – instead of reaching his finish at the first lewd stroke of Morse’s tongue against him.

When he was done, DeBryn unknotted the hand fisted in the pillow by his head and reached for Morse, fully intending to return the favour, if the chap wanted, or to do anything else that would please him.

But Morse, after dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and chin, seemed only to want DeBryn’s hand, and his kisses. He curled himself around DeBryn, pulling at DeBryn’s wrist to push his hand down between them, half-climbing on top of him as DeBryn tried desperately to keep up. Pinning Morse to the bed would have been like trying to cage a wild thing, when he was so squirming and frantic, and DeBryn let Morse use him, let Morse push and pull at him until they ended up with Morse kneeling astride DeBryn’s hips, thrusting into his hand, leaning down for hard, biting kisses tasting of sex, until DeBryn worked two slick fingers into him and Morse had nipped hard at DeBryn’s mouth before breaking away, hiding his face against DeBryn’s shoulder, and shuddering through his release.

Now he lay there, the storm that had driven him thus far having abated, and DeBryn ran a hand along his arm.

Morse stirred a little at the contact, his eyes slitting open, and shifted off DeBryn enough for DeBryn to turn onto his side, stuffing a pillow under his head to watch Morse. Morse didn’t move far, merely slung a thigh across both of DeBryn’s and settled himself into the curl of DeBryn’s body, turning his face half-into DeBryn’s chest and sliding an arm around his waist.

DeBryn cupped Morse’s nape. Despite appearances, his instincts warned that Morse wasn’t settled, simply too exhausted to do anything more than lie heavily against him, a temporary safe harbour.

Gently, then.

‘Your matter of the other day,’ DeBryn began, smoothing a thumb along the side of Morse’s throat, fighting off his own post-coital sleepiness, ‘is it still outstanding?’

Morse sighed. ‘No, it’s finished. Gone.’

There was something in his tone that made DeBryn look at him sharply, tilting his head down to try and see Morse’s face. ‘Do you mean destroyed?’

‘Yes.’

DeBryn sucked his lower lip between his teeth, frowning. He couldn’t, he daren’t, say anything, yet destroying evidence...

But his silence spoke for him, for Morse stirred. ‘Some things are too dangerous to exist.’

Just last week DeBryn had pulled out _Far from the Madding Crowd_ from the bookcase and dislodged his volume of _Love Poems of Greece and Rome_. It had landed on the floor, and from between its pages had fluttered a scrap of green, and a slip of paper; when he bent to retrieve them, grumbling at his clumsiness, the green thing had turned out to be a sprig of clover from his garden, its summer freshness gone but the colour remaining, and the slip of paper bore a few scrawled words:

_M – 3300 – T_

DeBryn had stared at them for a long time, cupped in the protective curl of his palm, his heart thumping. The sensible act would have been to destroy them both, yet such an act was unthinkable.

‘I know,’ DeBryn murmured, his heart aching as Morse scuffled wearily against him. ‘And you still can’t tell me what it–’

‘No.’ Morse’s tone was sharp, and he lifted his head to frown at DeBryn, mouth tight with annoyance. ‘I’ve already told you I can’t, now stop asking.’

It stung even more than usual, being on the receiving end of Morse’s irritation when they were both still sweat-damp and heavy-limbed from their mutual pleasure. Stung far more than DeBryn expected and he tensed, pulling away from the warmth of Morse’s bare skin.

Yet no sooner had he recoiled than Morse was already following him, catching his hand and brushing a kiss over the backs of his fingers.

‘I can’t,’ Morse said quietly, his eyes downcast and his shoulders bowed wretchedly. ‘I’m sorry but truly, I can’t.’

DeBryn let himself be drawn back in, let Morse resettle himself. ‘Not now, or not ever?’

Morse rested his forehead against DeBryn’s chest. ‘Not ever.’

DeBryn looked down at him. The beautiful relaxation of moments ago had already left him; his muscles tense as he tried once again to shoulder the weight of the world’s secrets. DeBryn cupped his hand over Morse’s nape, kneading at it lightly, and let himself speak the words that somehow only came when they were here, like this. ‘Alright then, Thomas. It’s alright.’

It was the right thing to say. Morse gave a great shuddering sigh and squirmed up the bed until he lay on the pillows, winding an arm around DeBryn’s waist and silently tugging him close until DeBryn’s face was tucked into the crook of Morse’s neck and shoulder. Morse rested his chin on DeBryn’s head.

It was gratitude; DeBryn didn’t need to hear it spoken aloud to know it, and he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Morse’s skin, his clean sweat.

Earlier that day DeBryn – responding to winter’s nip in the air – had reached for the scarf bought during last winter’s trip to Scotland, and frowned when his hand encountered an empty hook. He had searched briefly for it before realisation dawned, and it was with a certain amusement and a complete lack of surprise that he had seen it wound around Morse’s neck when he stepped through the door that evening. According to Locard's exchange principle the scarf would smell of Morse’s skin now, just faintly, and DeBryn nosed along Morse’s throat and fancied he could discern faint traces of damp wool.

Sleepiness was pulling his eyelids closed and, despite the relatively early hour, he must have dozed. It was the only explanation, for DeBryn roused some time later to find the room totally dark, Morse’s arm heavy across his back, and Morse murmuring quietly.

‘...every life holds one great love, one name to hold onto at the end...’

Muzzy with sleep, DeBryn frowned to himself. It sounded as though he were quoting. Yet that wasn’t Housman, or Auden, or anyone DeBryn recognised, and he stirred, making a questioning noise. Morse’s voice stilled abruptly.

‘Sorry.’ Gentle fingers touched DeBryn’s face. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

DeBryn shook his head. He reached behind himself for the lamp, but they had crept too far over to the other side of the bed and he gave up and nudged Morse. ‘Make a long arm, Thomas.’

Morse’s stomach tensed as he stretched, and then the gentle golden light revealed him soft and rumpled, cheeks flushed with sleepiness.

‘What were you saying?’

Morse squirmed, sitting up and stuffing a pillow behind his shoulders against the headboard, until DeBryn’s face was level with his ribs. On instinct, DeBryn’s hand wandered lower, touching the faint line left by Gull’s knife, not needing to look to find the spot.

‘“Every life holds one great love, one name to hold onto at the end.” ’ Morse’s arm was still curved around DeBryn, palm resting against DeBryn’s back. ‘Do you think it’s true?’

DeBryn looked at him. Morse’s gaze was fixed on the other side of the bedroom, but DeBryn would have bet his entire pathologist’s kit Morse wasn’t actually seeing any of the titles on that bookcase.

It wasn’t often DeBryn had the opportunity to observe Morse without getting his scrutiny returned, and he took in the slim length of him, his brilliant mind, the soft mouth that could purse in impatience or – all too rarely – stretch wide in one of his genuine smiles that were all the dearer for being so hard-won. The freckles that dusted down across his chest and shoulders, his loyal heart and unflinching moral compass. The odd sensation in DeBryn’s chest and stomach grew sharply, and DeBryn took a deep breath and allowed that it was time he admitted to himself that he knew what this was. He had known for a while now, and it was past time to give it its true name.

‘Yes.’ He pressed his palm flat to Morse’s side, his heart squeezing almost painfully when Morse finally dropped his blue eyes to DeBryn’s face, eyebrows raised enquiringly as his hand rested warm and steady on DeBryn’s back. ‘Yes, I think it is.’


	6. Chapter 6

Almost overnight, all the poems made sense. The poems, and the songs, the paintings and sculpture, and the ridiculous overblown arias that DeBryn had previously rolled his eyes at even as he appreciated the quality of the music. One evening, alone by the fire with a glass of brandy and a performance of _Nozze di Figaro_ on the radio, he had caught himself smiling in a thoroughly vacuous manner at _Voi Che Sapete_ , and had shaken himself out of it, getting up to refill his glass with a thankful thought that at least he was alone with no-one watching his expressions.

It was like having a layer of his defences peeled away, like some soft-bodied animal coaxed out of its shell to lie new-skinned and exposed; the feeling was not entirely comfortable but not entirely unpleasant either, and DeBryn cradled the new knowledge to himself, silently aware of it as he went about his days.

Whether to tell Morse, though. The chap seemed content with what they had, that was undeniable. Yet how did he see DeBryn? As a long-term companion, or merely a friend and temporary bed partner? Love was different, something far more serious, and it was all too easy to imagine Morse growing silent and awkward as DeBryn confessed his feelings. It was easier still to use his knowledge of Morse’s character, the fellow’s sense of decency, to follow the train of logic further and picture Morse pulling away from what they shared, pushing distance between them in a bid to be kind to DeBryn’s broken heart, until they were eventually reduced to mere nodding acquaintances who met twice a month over a corpse.

And it wasn’t as though there could be a future for them. DeBryn had watched his brothers court the women they would eventually marry, he was well aware of how this sort of thing was meant to go yet none of it was possible for them. Even openly courting Morse – to say nothing of co-habitation or marriage – was as unreachable as the moon. Perhaps if things had been different they may have been able to manage some sort of discreet living arrangement; some fellows did, after all, albeit usually artists and writers. But with Morse a serving police officer it was out of the question. DeBryn may as well hunt for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, for he stood more chance of finding it.

Even knowing that, this new giddiness didn’t abate, and he woke each morning – sometimes alone, but increasingly often it was with Morse’s sleeping breath on his nape, his chest warm against DeBryn’s back – already light-hearted and good-humoured, muzzily confused until he recalled why. He was a fool for the chap. He set aside newspapers carefully folded open to interesting articles, ready to hand over with a suitably distracted air, as though the paper in question had just happened to fall open at that spot. He prepared elaborate meals when Morse came over for the evening – the fellow could stand to gain a few pounds, and cooking for someone else was entirely different from eating by himself. He even found himself starting to manufacture excuses to stop by the station, but caught himself before he could proceed too far with such foolishness. As though that were a remotely safe thing to do, in a building full of men trained to notice unusual behaviour.

The most difficult moments were in bed together. DeBryn found himself wanting to take his time, to linger over kisses and caresses where Morse was all greedy impatience. He found himself newly responsive to Morse’s touch, imbued with a new tenderness for each one of Morse’s sighs, the gentle arch to his spine that spoke of how very pleasurable he found it all. Perhaps this was what was meant by making love; DeBryn would hardly know.

And then, as though DeBryn hadn’t enough to do to hide his feelings, Morse himself made it abruptly worse.

They were out at the Eagle and Child for drinks, making up the numbers for the retirement party of a sergeant, and after the speeches Morse had laid claim to a table for the pair of them, along with Strange, PC Westhall, and Thursday. Morse had sat himself down by DeBryn at once and DeBryn turned his face away to hide his smile, unreasonably pleased, like being singled out for attention by a standoffish cat. Meanwhile Morse drummed his fingers irritably, glaring at Strange chatting to a pretty girl at the bar instead of getting his round. 

Thursday had left after a couple of drinks but the rest had stayed and DeBryn had enjoyed himself more than he had anticipated, until it grew late and they all had to leave. Morse had had rather more than the rest of them, or perhaps simply hadn’t eaten enough, for his steps meandered and once or twice he nearly leaned on Strange as the three of them walked down St Giles’ street and halted at the corner.

‘I’ve got to go, matey.’ Strange spoke to Morse, who blinked at him owlishly. ‘That girl – she and her mates are going to a club later, said I should come.’

He didn’t extend the invitation to Morse, DeBryn noted with private amusement. And no wonder: Morse was unsteady on his feet, listing gently to the right, and no doorman worth their pay would have let him in.

Strange looked hard at Morse. ‘You going to be alright getting home?’

Morse drew himself up with a fine air of offended dignity, twitching his coat close around him. ‘I’m fine.’

He didn’t sound terribly convincing, and Strange frowned. He glanced at DeBryn, standing off to one side with his hands jammed deep in his pockets against the night’s chill, and DeBryn could see the moment the idea crossed his mind.

‘Doctor...’ Strange began.

DeBryn made no reply, knowing full well where this was going but waiting to hear him ask for it.

‘You’ve a car, haven’t you?’

‘I do, yes.’ DeBryn raised his eyebrows. ‘At my home, where I left it in anticipation of an evening’s drinking.’

Subtlety was lost on Strange, it really was.

‘Right.’ Strange gripped Morse’s coat sleeve as he began to tilt to the left. ‘He’s a bloody lightweight, for all that he puts it away... is there any chance you could see him back?’

DeBryn exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘Do I look like a taxi service?’

‘Please, doc.’ Morse tugged his sleeve out of Strange’s grip and leaned back against the wall, and Strange glanced at him before turning back to DeBryn. ‘I’d do it myself only... well...’

He probably would. Strange was a good sort, and DeBryn grumbled, ‘Oh fine,’ careful to sound as put-upon as he could manage, glaring at Strange who had the grace to look sheepish. ‘If I must, I must. I hope this girl is worth it.’

‘Ah, thanks, doc, I appreciate it.’ Relieved, Strange turned to Morse, enunciating slowly and slightly too loud. ‘Doctor DeBryn is going to see you home. Alright?’

Morse recoiled, affronted. ‘I don’t need seeing home.’

Strange looked at DeBryn, helplessly, and DeBryn stepped forward. ‘Go on, Strange, leave him to me.’

‘Thanks.’ Not keen to hang around, Strange left, walking quickly, and DeBryn watched Morse carefully, ready to put out a hand if it looked as though his balance was still impaired.

‘Come on then,’ he said, when Morse made no move but simply stood there blinking. ‘Let’s find you a taxi.’

He turned away, and jumped the next instant as Morse leaned into him.

‘Let’s walk,’ Morse said, in a wash of hot breath against his ear.

‘It’s near on half an hour,’ DeBryn protested, but weakly because Morse had rested a hand in the small of his back, stroking pointedly in a way that dissolved DeBryn’s willpower.

‘Mm. It’s a nice evening, though.’

It wasn’t, it was bloody freezing, but Morse was persuasive and they walked, and when they arrived at the turning into Morse’s street, Morse leaned into DeBryn’s shoulder and DeBryn’s steps turned silently towards his own house instead, Morse warm and steady against his side.

Remarkably steady, in fact, for a man who had been almost propped up by Strange when they left the pub, and as they turned in at DeBryn’s gate, DeBryn watched Morse’s easy stride up his garden path with suspicion.

‘The night air seems to have worked wonders on you,’ he noted dryly, as Morse stepped neatly over a drift of autumn leaves lying across the path. ‘Almost miraculous, in fact.’

‘Yes.’ Morse’s smile was innocence personified. ‘Good thing you were there, though, all the same.’

He leaned against the wall, watching DeBryn hunt through his keys, and DeBryn shook his head.

‘One of these days someone will notice how often I end up helping you home,’ he said, but the warning was half-hearted at best when he had Morse so close beside him, one hand firm on his waist through the layers of coat and jacket and pullover, with DeBryn’s own scarf wound around his pale throat.

Once inside, they had barely shrugged off their overcoats before Morse was herding DeBryn towards the stairs, hands everywhere and kisses tasting of Scotch: a man with very definite ideas about how he wanted his evening to end.

DeBryn needed little convincing; he hadn’t had anything like as much as Morse, to say nothing of the sobering effects of the walk, and he tangled his fingers in Morse’s hair as they stumbled through his bedroom door, pausing only to let Morse strip him out of his clothes.

In bed, however, shivering slightly from the chill of the sheets, he revised his opinion when he cupped his hand between Morse’s legs and found him only half-hard.

‘You’re...’ DeBryn paused, abruptly unsure, his other hand faltering in its slow caresses along Morse’s waist. ‘You’re not–’

‘No.’ Morse barely hesitated, nuzzling kisses along DeBryn’s throat, as his hands wandered lower and found DeBryn considerably more interested in the proceedings. ‘Bit too much Scotch. But I could still do this for you, though.’

He said it so easily, as though it were nothing. He really must be drunk, DeBryn thought, distracted a moment later as Morse slid a warm hand between his thighs. He hesitated, trying to think through the addictive pleasure of Morse tracing his nails across the tops of his thighs, the curve of his hip.

‘Come on,’ Morse coaxed, running a thumb along his cock, and DeBryn gave in. Even three sheets to the wind, there was small chance of ever persuading Morse to do something he’d no desire for; DeBryn may as well just give in gracefully and save himself the trouble.

‘Fine,’ and he cupped Morse’s jaw and guided his face close for more kisses, and Morse made a pleased noise before licking wetly across his palm and fingers and reaching back down under the sheets and blankets.

He leaned in to kiss DeBryn at the same time that his hand – now warm and slick – closed around his cock, and DeBryn sighed his pleasure into Morse’s mouth. Like this it was clear that Morse hadn’t been lying about the amount of Scotch he had drunk; he seemed distracted even by his own peculiar standards. Setting a steady rhythm, letting DeBryn push into his hand until pleasure gathered tight and immediate in his hips, before veering away to slide his hand between DeBryn’s thighs, teasing at sensitive skin until DeBryn was gritting his teeth with frustration, before resuming his slow strokes.

Throughout it all Morse lay on his side, one elbow braced on the bed and his head propped on his hand, watching with undisguised curiosity. As DeBryn discovered when he opened his eyes to find Morse peering at him.

‘Are you–’ DeBryn had to break off, gritting his teeth as Morse’s fingers delicately explored the tip of his arousal. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Hmm.’ Morse’s smile was sin incarnate, his hair falling over his forehead, and DeBryn had to close his eyes, hips lifting as Morse rubbed a thumb idly along the underside of his cock.

‘I was wondering...’ Morse dipped his head for a brief kiss, giving in to the insistent clasp of DeBryn’s hand at his nape. ‘Have you had other men?’

DeBryn opened his eyes to stare at Morse, confused. Had Morse forgotten the circumstances of their first meeting? Did he think DeBryn a complete innocent?

‘You know I have,’ he said, breathless, his toes flexing as Morse’s fingers curled silkily around the base of his cock to rub at him.

‘No.’ Morse shook his head, ‘I mean...’ He moved his legs, parting his thighs to tuck a knee between DeBryn’s, and the shift in position, the spread of his knees, enlightened DeBryn.

‘Oh.’ Even here, lying in each others’ arms with Morse’s hand on his cock, DeBryn’s face heated. ‘Yes, I have.’

‘Hm.’ Morse tightened his grip slightly. ‘Would you want to with me?’

A burst of arousal knocked him breathless, his cock leaping in Morse’s hand. Useless to deny how much the idea aroused him, but DeBryn temporised, ‘Would you want to?’

His voice emerged reasonably steady, belied by the tilt of his hips up towards Morse’s hand.

But Morse only kissed DeBryn’s mouth softly and murmured, shy for the first time that evening: ‘Perhaps.’

DeBryn didn’t mention their one aborted previous attempt, all those many months ago. But it was certainly in his mind and, he would bet, Morse’s too.

‘Alright then,’ DeBryn said, hands sliding along Morse’s waist. ‘We can, if you want.’

‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask,’ Morse said, his voice serious, as though his hand – hidden under the blankets – wasn’t rubbing and sliding on him in a way that made his breath quiver. ‘But you haven’t.’ He frowned slightly. ‘I thought you would want to.’

Dear God, if Morse only knew... The mere thought of opening him up slowly, pushing into him, finding just the right angle to make his spine arch in that beautiful curve that meant – at least temporarily – his over-active brain had shut off and he was firmly rooted in the pleasure his body could bring him. But–

‘I’m content with what we have now,’ DeBryn managed, because he couldn’t let Morse think this wasn’t enough, not when it was so much more than DeBryn had ever dreamed he might have. He cupped Morse’s nape, drew him in for a brief kiss. ‘More than content. Happy.’

He had to stop at that. They were already skating too close to the truth of his feelings, and lying skin to skin like this it would be easy to let something slip. Instead he cupped Morse’s jaw, drawing him in for another kiss.

Morse allowed the attempted distraction for a few moments, long enough that DeBryn began to press his heels into the bed for greater leverage to push into Morse’s hands. His orgasm was so close, and with Morse’s mouth on his and his hand twisting wickedly around his cock, pressing against the sweet spot just under the head with every pass of his thumb, DeBryn’s stomach muscles began to tense, his balls drawing up tight and sensitive.

‘Mm.’ Morse lifted his head, his hand slowing again, and DeBryn groaned in mingled arousal and frustration. ‘What’s it like?’

‘I–’ DeBryn gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, graphic images playing out on the backs of his eyelids, a bead of sweat tickling at his temple. ‘I... pleasurable, I... Morse, _please_.’

There was only so much a man could stand, and DeBryn fumbled a hand down under the blankets to fold his fingers tightly around Morse’s, squeezing and pulling them hard and fast along the length of his cock, his mind full of filthy, half-formed images conjured up by Morse’s questions, until DeBryn felt the initial flutter of pleasure, low in his gut. But at the same instant that he moaned, breathless, his body drawing up towards orgasm, Morse’s hand tensed under his, pulling away from his cock.

DeBryn swore through gritted teeth, but Morse kissed his mouth hard and muttered, ‘Hold on, I want to...’

He was moving, pushing the sheets and blankets off DeBryn to slide down the bed, and as his mouth settled on DeBryn’s hipbone, his hair tickling soft against DeBryn’s stomach, DeBryn tipped his head back and groaned. His thighs parted, spreading to accommodate the breadth of Morse’s shoulders, even as he warned breathlessly, ‘I’m close...be careful if you don’t want to... to...’

Morse’s wicked grin was audible. ‘I can see that.’

A warm hand firm around the base of his cock and – _Christ_ – a warm mouth on the tip of him, letting him press up and between Morse’s lips and over his fluttering tongue, and DeBryn clutched at the sheets. Morse drew his mouth along the length of him, tight and slick, and DeBryn held on for a bare minute before grabbing at Morse’s shoulder, unable to speak but wanting to let him know, and Morse dragged his tongue firmly across the tip of DeBryn’s cock until DeBryn came with a strangled cry.

It was all the more intense for being so long delayed, and through the blur of his pleasure DeBryn was faintly aware of Morse swallowing and wiping his mouth against DeBryn’s thigh. When the mattress dipped and swayed DeBryn opened his eyes to find Morse crawling back up the bed, settling himself astride DeBryn’s hips. In the dimness of the room it was just possible to make out the flash of his grin, and when he leaned down DeBryn met his kiss readily, tasting his own salt tang in Morse’s mouth.

‘I like doing that for you,’ Morse said quietly. He broke away to kiss the side of DeBryn’s throat. ‘I love how much you want it.’ Another kiss, this time just under his ear, and DeBryn shivered under it, and the glancing pressure against his softening cock as Morse leaned down. ‘You want it, but you never ask me for it.’

The things that DeBryn wanted from this man but daren’t ask for would have filled one of his medical tomes, and in lieu of reply DeBryn reached down to cup his hand between Morse’s thighs. ‘You do like it.’

Morse was half-hard, and growing harder under DeBryn’s explorations, thickening in delicate increments against DeBryn’s palm, pushing through the loose curl of his fingers.

‘Mm,’ Morse sighed, his hips stirring to press forward against DeBryn’s hand.

‘If the Scotch has worn off, then lie down and I’ll return the favour,’ DeBryn whispered to him, his heart beating hard under the affectionate press of Morse’s lips to his cheek, Morse’s response to his touch.

But Morse didn’t move. ‘Could take a while.’

‘I don’t care.’ DeBryn pressed a thumb to Morse’s chin, guiding his mouth up for a gentle kiss. He was weak with tenderness for him, and he kissed Morse’s mouth softly, insistently, while further down his hand rubbed lightly along Morse’s firming length. ‘Take as long as you need.’

And Morse purred his approval against DeBryn’s mouth before his muscles loosened, enough for DeBryn to roll them over and press Morse back into the pillows before sliding down the bed.

Later – much later – when it was all over, after Morse had clawed the pillows off the bed, his panting turning to rising moans when DeBryn finally pressed a slick finger up into him as he sucked him, his heel dragging heavily along DeBryn’s waist, Morse flung an arm over his face and panted for breath. DeBryn sat back on his heels, between Morse’s spread thighs, dragging his wrist across his mouth before leaning over to grab a tissue from the box on the bedside table to clean his hands.

By the time he had retrieved the pillows from the floor and reassembled the bed, Morse had roused himself enough to turn over and sprawl across DeBryn’s chest, resting his cheek over DeBryn’s heart and pinning him to the bed, one hand fastening over his upper arm. In return DeBryn cradled Morse’s head, pushing his sweat-soaked hair back from his temples and dragging his fingers through it, making Morse stir and groan softly in drowsy pleasure.

‘“Pleasurable”, you said.’ Morse sounded sleepy now, his words slurred almost as much as they had been when he was leaning on Strange’s shoulder, shamming at being too drunk to find his own way home.

DeBryn’s face burned to the roots of his hair and he shifted slightly, glad Morse couldn’t see.

‘Yes,’ he said, tongue-tied and newly shy, before adding, ‘although that’s speaking solely as the. Er. Active participant. I’ve never... tried the other.’

‘There must be something in it, though.’ Morse stirred, and DeBryn realised he had stopped his caresses to Morse’s hair. He resumed, and Morse settled. ‘Look at the ancient Greeks.’

Despite himself, DeBryn smiled. ‘Once a Greats scholar...’

A soft huff of breath on DeBryn’s chest was his only reply, and DeBryn stroked his hair a little longer, silking a lock around a finger as he searched for words.

‘Some fellows simply don’t care for it,’ DeBryn murmured at last, hotly embarrassed but needing to make Morse understand. ‘It’s not to everyone’s taste, you shouldn’t feel you... if you’re not... if you don’t–’

‘I wondered, that’s all.’

DeBryn bit his lip. That wasn’t a yes or a no; it could be Morse honestly contemplating it, or it could be Morse simply exercising his curiosity in that oddly frank way he had about him sometimes. Just in case it was the former, though...

‘Some fellows prefer to... bathe,’ DeBryn faltered, caught between the need to tell Morse and making it sound as though he had expectations. ‘Before. I... I just–’

‘I see.’ Morse’s voice was a drowsy murmur and DeBryn let him interrupt, grateful to be spared the effort of finishing his thought. But then Morse lifted his head to rest his chin on DeBryn’s chest, his eyes sharp, familiar lines appearing between his brows. ‘But usually I. When you.’

In the darkness of the room DeBryn stared at him, trying to read his expression in the half-light, to work out what had him so disconcerted, and when Morse’s eyes flickered to the bedside table comprehension dawned.

‘No,’ DeBryn said quickly, ‘no, that’s fine, that’s not a... But this is... rather different.’

He was a doctor, he really ought to be able to talk about such things without embarrassment, especially to the lover curled warmly naked and half-atop him. But he stammered to a halt under Morse’s blue inquisitive gaze and finally finished by cupping his hand lightly over Morse’s nape, silently urging him to put his head back down.

After a long, silent moment, Morse complied and DeBryn heaved a grateful sigh. It wasn’t long before Morse’s breathing slowed and deepened into familiar cadences of sleep, and DeBryn stared at the distantly blurred ceiling. No matter how he tried, his mind kept returning to thoughts of it, and he rubbed the heel of his hand fretfully against his temple. Useless to speculate, yet the idea of trying that with him, of being so close to him, set up a complicated ache in DeBryn’s chest. It drove him to restlessness, and DeBryn sighed again.

Well, he needed to get up anyway. He was in desperate need of a damp flannel, and while he was up he may as well fetch water and aspirin, just in case Morse found that the effects of the Scotch lasted through until tomorrow morning.

\----------

There were some things in life that were meant to be savoured. Like a rare find of Keats tucked at the back of a second-hand bookshop with pages still uncut. Or _Parsifal_ , with a glass of fine brandy at his elbow and nowhere to be for the next four hours. Or a perfect summer’s afternoon on the river, with the fish rising and the play of sunlight on water lulling one into gently philosophical mood.

Lately DeBryn had found a new one to add to this particular list: one of the vanishingly rare occasions of a mid-week afternoon when both he and Morse were neither on duty nor even on call, with the pleasure of the experience heightened by the rain pattering on the window, the crackling of the fire in the hearth, and the delicate curl of steam from a teapot perched on a small table midway between two armchairs.

DeBryn glanced over the top of his sheaf of papers at the occupant of the second chair. He had told Morse he would be at home that afternoon but hadn’t really expected his company, all too aware of the erratic nature of police shift schedules. So it had been an unlooked-for pleasure when Morse had let himself in, shrugged off his sodden overcoat, and proceeded to install himself in DeBryn’s living room with Puccini on the record player, the day’s crossword in his hand, and a book at his elbow, as though... well, as though it were his own home.

The promise of sex hung unspoken in the air between them.

The same case that had resulted in a mid-week day off for Morse had also kept him at it hard enough that they hadn’t been to bed together for over a week. Even if they could have found the time, Morse had been walking around with a face like thunder that said quite clearly lovers’ kisses and soft words were the last thing on his mind.

But now DeBryn’s body tingled with the awareness of Morse in the opposite armchair, tie off and the top button of his shirt undone but, unusually, he felt no urge to drag the fellow upstairs. No doubt that was where they would end up but, for now, it was rather pleasant to let the anticipation build.

DeBryn had watched too long; Morse’s shoulders shifted and he looked up to catch DeBryn’s eye.

‘What?’ Morse tilted his head to one side, brows arching.

He had toed off his shoes to stretch his stocking feet out towards the fire and DeBryn shook his head mutely, afraid that if he drew attention to the cosy domesticity of it all then it would vanish like a soap bubble.

‘How goes it?’ Morse nodded towards the papers lying forgotten in DeBryn’s lap.

DeBryn gathered them up with a sigh. ‘Hardly riveting.’

It was preparation for the annual lectures he gave to medical students about his field, no less tedious for being anticipated. His only consolation was that, in the throng of bored faces, there may be one or two bright sparks of genuine interest in the field.

The crossword lay completed and DeBryn tilted his head, trying to read the spine of the book in Morse’s hand. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

‘Oh.’ Morse tilted the book up: _Fitton’s Promotion Syllabus_. ‘Prep for my sergeant’s.’

‘I see.’ DeBryn eyed Morse curiously. ‘You’ve decided to try for it, have you?’

Morse shrugged, mouth pulling down. ‘May as well.’

Hardly a ringing expression of enthusiasm, but DeBryn held his tongue. Of late Morse had seemed increasingly restless; never giving anything less than his best on the job but with a distracted air about him, and a growing disregard for the internal politics of the station.

DeBryn would have asked him about it, save he already knew the answer he would receive. The Sphinx herself could have learned a thing or two from this man, when he wasn’t in the mood to discuss something.

Under DeBryn’s gaze Morse looked away, staring into the fire with tension lingering in the lines about his mouth, and DeBryn bent his head to his work again. He made a couple of notes in the margins, references to recent journal articles, before a soft huff from Morse caught his attention again.

‘You may as well give up and adopt that thing.’ All Morse’s discontent had vanished into gentle amusement, and DeBryn looked at him a few moments longer than needed, taking in the sight of him, before turning to see what had brought that light to his eyes.

Just inside the living room door, sitting upright with tail curled neatly around its forefeet, was the cat.

DeBryn frowned. ‘Oh, now really.’

‘Do you not think you’re fighting a losing battle?’

Morse smiled at him, the wide smile that showed all his teeth and made his eyes dance, and DeBryn’s irritation melted.

‘I let it into the _kitchen_ ,’ he said, trying to sound fussily annoyed, ‘that was all. This weather outside would drown even a fish, Morse, don’t look like that. And I swear I shut the door behind me.’

Morse shrugged, his smile lingering around his eyes, and DeBryn decided to let the thing stay where it was. As long as it wasn’t clawing the furniture or shedding fur everywhere it was hardly doing any harm. And Morse was rather soft-hearted where children and animals were concerned.

‘I always thought you might have a cat,’ he murmured, after a few minutes with only the quiet crackle of the fire. ‘The first time I came to your house I half-expected to find one.’

‘Did you now.’ The first time Morse had come to the house, as DeBryn recalled, they had had other things on their minds.

From the pink flush across Morse’s cheekbones DeBryn wasn’t the only one remembering, and Morse cleared his throat slightly. ‘You just seemed the type.’

Morse watched the cat wash its face, and DeBryn watched Morse instead; the play of firelight over his cheekbones, the softness of his mouth, his long hands cradling the ignored book.

There was an old towel in the airing cupboard; tucked into a cardboard box it should make an adequate bed. And one small cat shouldn’t cause too much mess... and if Morse liked it...

‘What do you mean, I “seemed the type”?’ DeBryn asked, trying to sound tart, as though he wouldn’t adopt half a dozen of the things if it pleased the fellow.

Morse opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak the doorbell interrupted him. He raised his eyebrows, looking a sharp question at DeBryn.

‘No, I’m not expecting anyone.’ Worry shivered down DeBryn’s spine. He felt abruptly exposed, even though he was doing nothing more than having a quiet afternoon by the fireside with a friend, and he drew a deep breath and reminded himself that was all anyone would see. Nothing that dozens of perfectly respectable men didn’t do every day.

When he answered the door, the cat darting under the sofa at his movement, DeBryn’s attempt at reassuring himself vanished.

‘Constable Strange.’

‘Oh.’ Strange’s broad face went slack with astonishment. ‘Hullo Doctor. What are you doing here?’

Through his shock and trepidation, DeBryn managed to gesture to himself, his slippers, his Morris in the driveway. ‘I live here.’

‘Oh right.’ With all the nosiness of a born policeman, Strange’s gaze moved automatically past DeBryn to the fishing watercolours hanging in his hallway, the telephone and notepad neatly aligned on the hall table.

Had he come for Morse? Surely he could have no idea Morse was here, but various lies and explanations began to take shape in DeBryn’s mind even as he asked: ‘Can I help you, then?’

It took every ounce of his self-control not to let his voice betray his worry, nor the relief that left his legs unsteady when Strange said, ‘We’re doing door to door in the street. A house down the road was broken into last night; did you see or hear anything suspicious?’

DeBryn shrugged as casually as he could, his palm sweaty as he gripped the edge of the door. ‘Can’t help, I’m afraid. I was on duty until late, and slept like a log when I got home.’

‘Right. Thanks.’ But Strange seemed in no hurry to move on, tucking himself under the shelter of the porch and away from the icy rain sheeting down behind him.

Was he hoping to be invited in out of the elements for a cup of tea? DeBryn licked his lips, trying to formulate words to send him on his way as Strange glanced past him into his hallway once again. With a low pulse of dread DeBryn recalled that Morse had hung his overcoat and scarf – the scarf DeBryn had given up all hope of ever being permitted to reclaim – in plain sight on the hat stand.

Too late now to pull the door closed, such a move would only end up drawing attention to the very thing he was trying to conceal. His only hope was to brazen it out, and DeBryn lifted his chin. ‘Is there anything else, Constable?’

‘No, nothing.’ Strange nodded towards the hat stand, to Morse’s wretched overcoat. ‘Looks like you’ve got company.’

‘Yes, I do.’ DeBryn’s heart raced, pounding fit to burst, his stomach knotting itself. ‘So, if you don’t mind...’

He began to close the door a few pointed inches, and Strange stepped back. ‘Of course. I’ll let you get back to them.’ He nodded. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

His breath shook with relief as Strange stepped off the porch, hunching his shoulders against the rain. DeBryn began to close the door, but Strange turned back to him. ‘Morse.’

DeBryn’s heart leapt into his throat, choking him. His hand clenched on the door. ‘What of him?’

‘Thanks for seeing him home, that night after Sergeant Foster’s leaving do, I really appreciated it.’ Strange gave a conspiratorial grin. ‘I’m sure he did too, though I doubt he said so. Prickly bugger.’

‘Oh.’ DeBryn’s knees were rubbery, and he tried to sound unconcerned. ‘Not at all.’

‘Well then.’ Strange nodded to him, turning away once again and DeBryn watched him go.

Strange cut across the garden to go to the next house over, and DeBryn pursed his lips at the damage to the sodden lawn before his stomach tilted in dread at the realisation that this would take him past the living room window. It was small consolation to know Morse had taken the armchair with its back to the window; dear God, please let the fellow have the sense to stay put in the depths of the armchair, and not pick this moment to get up for more tea or lean forward to stir the fire.

But Strange carried on walking with only a desultory glance into the room, and DeBryn exhaled a shaking breath and spared a moment to curse sharp-eyed police constables before closing the front door and – shivering faintly – returning to his warm hearth.

And to Morse, whose grim expression confirmed he had heard every word.

DeBryn took his seat opposite Morse, unable to meet Morse’s eyes and see whether they showed the same desperate fear that was eating DeBryn alive.

At length Morse sighed, shifting in his chair. Without taking his gaze from the dancing flames, DeBryn offered quietly, ‘He saw your overcoat and scarf.’

‘But didn’t recognise them.’ Morse’s voice was low and even.

DeBryn shook his head, pulling fretfully at the corners of his notes in his lap. ‘He may not be as sharp as you, Morse, but he’s no fool.’

Morse snorted quietly. ‘Not a fool, but–’

‘You can’t dismiss him,’ DeBryn insisted, ‘sooner or later this–’

‘Enough.’ The slap of Morse’s book on the arm of the chair punctuated the terse word and DeBryn fell silent, his throat constricting unhappily.

The easy mood of just a few minutes ago had fled, replaced by Morse tense and annoyed and DeBryn fidgeting with his shirt cuffs, frantic worry gnawing at him. He would do anything to keep Morse safe, couldn’t the chap see that?

DeBryn swallowed, staring into the fire, struggling to force words out. ‘If anything happened to you, because of... this... I’d never forgive myself, I don’t–’

‘I said enough.’ This time it was a snap, no mistake, and DeBryn’s words died on his tongue as Morse sighed, leaning forward to rake his fingers through his hair.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Morse said at last, a muttered undertone. As close to an apology as DeBryn was going to get. ‘There’s nothing to discuss.’

When DeBryn opened his mouth to protest this, Morse lifted his head to meet his eyes and DeBryn found himself lost for words. Perhaps the fellow was right. What was there to say?

‘This is my choice,’ Morse said, still holding DeBryn’s gaze. ‘Do you understand?’

Still at a loss for words, DeBryn could only nod and swallowed when Morse sat back in his chair, stretching his feet out towards the dying fire.

‘Tea,’ DeBryn managed at last, in lieu of watching Morse’s pinched expression that betrayed a great deal more worry than his words implied.

They still had the rest of the afternoon and evening together. A rare treat, and one that would be wasted if they spent it at odds, and DeBryn strove to recapture the mood. ‘I’ll make more tea. And perhaps you might put another log on the fire.’

DeBryn stood, picking up the fat-bellied teapot, but Morse only lounged in his chair, knees sprawled open slightly, and gazed up at him.

‘Actually,’ he began, and there was a new note in his voice that made something in DeBryn sit up and take notice, ‘I thought I might take a bath.’

‘At this hour–’ DeBryn began, baffled, glancing at the clock. Then his brain brought up the memory of that conversation, so often taken out and recalled in solitude, and he stuttered to a halt. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes.’ Any doubts about Morse’s intentions were vanquished by the cant of his head as he looked up at DeBryn, the slow creep of his foot across the hearthrug to rub suggestively against DeBryn’s ankle as he stood there clutching the teapot and staring like a fool. ‘What do you think?’

DeBryn swallowed, his mouth dry and face warm. ‘I... yes. If you like.’

Since that evening there had been no further mention of their conversation. DeBryn had wondered whether Morse had been serious in his enquiries, or whether it had been simply idle bedroom talk designed to heighten his pleasure in the moment. He had even wondered, albeit briefly, whether Morse had forgotten it entirely, although Morse had never previously shown himself to be a forgetful drunk.

But now Morse was rising to his feet, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes, taking the teapot gently from DeBryn’s unresisting hands and setting it aside before backing him into a corner – mercifully out of sight of the window – and giving him a slow kiss that made DeBryn’s mouth open hungrily, hands settling on Morse’s waist.

‘May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, eh?’ Morse said, nosing along DeBryn’s jaw to murmur directly into his ear.

DeBryn shuddered, half in superstition, half at the erotic tease of Morse’s breath on the sensitive spot where jaw met ear.

‘Don’t,’ he protested, even as his hands slid lower to rest on Morse’s arse, pulling him closer, ‘don’t say such things, that’s not–’

Morse kissed him again, silencing his protests, and DeBryn gave himself over to it until Morse pulled back, with a last lush bite to his lower lip.

‘I’ll see you upstairs.’ Morse ghosted his hand across the front of DeBryn’s trousers, lingering just long enough to send arousal whispering over his skin. ‘Ten minutes?’

‘Fine,’ DeBryn got out, and stared at the line of Morse’s back as he left.

No invitation to join him, then. Although given what he had to do, perhaps it was no surprise the chap wanted privacy.

The teacups rattled in their saucers as DeBryn carried them with unsteady hands though to the kitchen, busying himself with familiar routine while his attention was upstairs, in the bathroom, his imagination prompted by faint sounds of water splashing into the bath, the creak of the ancient plumbing.

At last, with the fire banked and the cat shooed gently but firmly back into the kitchen – DeBryn didn’t care to imagine Morse’s face if he pushed it back outdoors in this weather – DeBryn no longer had any reason to put off going upstairs and he gripped the banister as he ascended, nerves twisting tightly around anticipation low in his stomach.

In the bedroom DeBryn had barely checked his nails – clipped yesterday, thank goodness – and closed the curtains before the bathroom door opened. He found he was rubbing the pad of his thumb nervously, almost obsessively, against his clipped fingernails and stopped as Morse walked into the bedroom, closing the door quickly behind himself.

‘Christ, it’s freezing.’

‘Well, you would be.’ He sounded utterly inane, but how was a chap to think when Morse was wearing only a towel and a scattering of water droplets, each one begging to be kissed away.

‘Come on then.’ Morse discarded the damp towel onto the floor, crossing the room to pull at the hem of DeBryn’s pullover and shirt, and DeBryn’s hands fluttered up to help him.

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one feeling the pinch of their recent enforced abstinence, for Morse burrowed into DeBryn’s clothes with a flattering eagerness and pulled him down onto the bed as soon as DeBryn had stepped free of his shorts.

‘Well,’ Morse demanded, pressing firmly against him, already impatient as DeBryn splayed his hands over warm, damp skin and drank in his scent and taste. ‘How do we...’

‘Slowly,’ DeBryn said firmly. He knew better than to allude to their last abysmal attempt but that didn’t mean he would let Morse try to replicate it, and Morse grumbled at him but settled when DeBryn pulled him close for lazy thorough kisses.

Kissing him was a pleasure in itself, and DeBryn grew absorbed in exploring the delicate curve of his top lip, the lush softness of his lower, the way a gentle touch of his tongue-tip could make Morse’s lips part and his hands tighten greedily on DeBryn’s waist, his back. After so long with only the chaste brush of hands to sustain him, kissing was feast all on its own and DeBryn was only recalled to himself when one of his wandering hands slid across the top of Morse’s arse and he caught his breath, pressing forward against DeBryn’s hip.

The next instant Morse was leaning up onto an elbow, reaching over DeBryn to the bedside drawer, and DeBryn followed him. Gently, he took the jar of Vaseline out of Morse’s hands and replaced it in the drawer before, not daring to look at him, fishing out the tube he had acquired the morning after that conversation.

‘What’s this?’ Still braced on one arm, Morse took the tube of medical-grade lubricant out of DeBryn’s hands, turning it over curiously.

DeBryn swallowed hard, running his fingertips along the sweep of Morse’s collar bone until it merged into the shoulder muscle.

‘It’s better,’ he muttered, not quite meeting Morse’s eyes. ‘For some things.’

‘Alright then, _Doctor_.’ Morse’s tone was openly amused at DeBryn’s embarrassment, and when DeBryn risked a glance Morse’s smirk was pure devilry. ‘If you say so.’ He watched DeBryn take it from him. ‘Where did you get it? I wouldn’t have thought a chemist would sell such a thing?’

Just occasionally, it would be nice if his regular bedmate wasn’t _quite_ so intelligent.

‘I pinched it from the store cupboard,’ he confessed to Morse’s collar bone, as Morse huffed in amusement. ‘As medical students have been doing for years. And if anyone finds out I warn you, Morse, I shall have to resign in complete and utter mortification.’

‘A life of crime.’ Morse ducked his head to kiss DeBryn’s cheek. ‘It’s always the quiet ones.’

All the teasing died from his tone, however, when DeBryn pressed two wet fingers up into him and Morse moaned softly, eyes sliding shut, and leaned forward blindly for more kisses.

The nerves in DeBryn’s stomach calmed slightly as he worked his fingers into Morse, finding the spot that made his lips part on a gasp, his throat work frantically even as his cheeks stained pink. This was familiar, this he knew how to do, and he rocked his fingers into Morse, mimicking intercourse as best he could, pausing only to add more of the slick gel until Morse felt open and easy around his fingers, and his cock – pressed tightly against DeBryn’s hip – was wet at the tip.

‘What...’ Morse’s voice was hoarse, and he kissed DeBryn with dry lips and swallowed back a moan as DeBryn twisted his fingers slowly. ‘What do we do now?’

DeBryn had to take a moment to swallow hard. Morse, never slow on the uptake, had smeared some gel into his palm and taken DeBryn’s cock into his fist, rubbing slowly along his length, his grip slackening each time DeBryn found a particularly pleasurable touch.

‘It would be easier with me behind you,’ he said, breathless, his stomach clenching at the noise Morse made as DeBryn slid his fingers free to push at his hip.

‘Come on then.’ Morse squirmed, rolling over and shuffling until his spine was pressed against DeBryn’s chest. He drew a leg forward and DeBryn’s erection slid along the slick cleft of his arse. DeBryn moaned breathlessly.

‘A moment,’ he gritted out, leaning away to reach for one last thing from the bedside table, something he hadn’t used in months but that, just now, seemed entirely indispensible. He grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped some of the gel from himself, biting his lip as even this perfunctory touch sent pleasure singing along his nerve endings.

At the crinkle of the packet Morse shifted, twisting shoulders and head to peer down at where DeBryn was rolling the condom down onto himself.

‘What...’ Morse blinked, his blue eyes briefly confused before a wash of colour flooded up his throat and into his face. ‘I’m... in the bath. I washed–’

‘I know.’ DeBryn kissed him swiftly, sparing him the necessity of articulating it. ‘It’s not for... that. It’s for me. Because,’ he shuddered at the touch of Morse’s hand, reaching down with a palmful of cool gel to slick his erection, ‘without it things might be over rather quickly.’

Morse – damn him – actually smirked at that, although it changed to a moan a moment later as DeBryn pushed another smear of lubricant up inside him, and DeBryn gripped the base of his cock.

‘Take a deep breath,’ he ordered Morse, who was watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, all traces of laughter gone.

Morse obeyed, and as he exhaled DeBryn leaned in close, pushing steadily at him until Morse’s body yielded suddenly, sharply, and the tip of his cock sank inside.

It forced a gasp from Morse, and DeBryn quickly braced himself up with an arm and leaned over to kiss Morse’s temple.

‘Breathe,’ he ordered tersely, as Morse shifted minutely against him. ‘And try to relax.’

And then, because he hadn’t been this stomach-churningly nervous even for his very first attempt at this particular act, DeBryn added, in a rush: ‘We can stop if you want.’

Even here, like this, Morse’s jaw firmed stubbornly. ‘No.’

He twisted his neck, tilting his face up for a kiss and DeBryn tried his best to distract him with the gently play of lips and tongue as he leaned forward. Tried to distract himself, too, from not only the butterflies in his stomach but also the knowledge of where he was and what he was doing and to who, to say nothing of the slick, tight heat around his cock that was driving him half-mad with the urge to thrust forward, to take what he needed.

‘Alright then.’ DeBryn kissed Morse’s mouth, his chin, the sharp point of his shoulder, as he pulled back slightly before pressing forward again, noting the shudder that ran along Morse’s spine as he moved.

DeBryn lay back down, reaching down to grip Morse’s hips with shaking hands as he moved. Still as slow as he could manage, but lying down he could grip Morse’s hips and encourage him to tilt himself like this, and DeBryn could angle himself like _that_ , and at the next press inwards a shiver rippled through Morse’s frame.

‘Like that.’ His hand settled over DeBryn’s on his hip, gripping tightly. ‘There, like that.’

DeBryn couldn’t speak, rendered temporarily mute by the delicate shivers running through Morse’s back against his chest, the searing pleasure of his cock sunk inside Morse’s body, but he rested his forehead against Morse’s nape, closed his eyes, and tried his best to obey.

DeBryn stroked his palms along Morse’s chest and stomach and thighs, gentling him, before cupping Morse’s arse in his hands and holding him steady, trying to convey reassurance and care, pressing his mouth to Morse’s skin as DeBryn moved in him, gentle as he knew how to be.

No matter who he was with, no matter which of the series of faceless men out at Godstow he had found for a quick interlude, DeBryn had always tried to be a generous lover. But he had never felt like this with any of the others; he had never been so invested in someone else’s pleasure before. As though the fact of his own climax was entirely secondary to the fact of Morse enjoying it, perhaps even learning to want it.

It was certainly doing something for Morse, that much was clear. After a few moments Morse sighed out a breath that held faint traces of a moan, and reached back, fumbling to tangle his hand with DeBryn’s and draw it down between his legs, and DeBryn curled his fingers around Morse’s erection and stroked him, trying to match the rhythm of his own thrusts to the tiny hitches of Morse’s hips.

It took Morse a long time, long enough that DeBryn was sweating freely and shuddering with the effort of holding back by the time Morse seemed ready to finish. Once or twice he seemed to get close – his sighs turning to moans, his body tensing – but something would throw him off. A too-hard thrust when DeBryn forgot himself that drew a not-entirely pleasurable noise from Morse’s throat and left DeBryn kissing Morse’s shoulder in mute apology. Or pleasure would rise sharply in DeBryn’s groin, his own orgasm so very nearly within reach that DeBryn would have to still for a moment, crushing his moans against Morse’s shoulder and gulping deep breaths, trying to hold on while Morse groaned in frustration and arched against him.

But finally, by the time DeBryn was shuddering and frantic, driven half-mad by Morse’s cock in his hand, the fact he could feel every shiver and twitch of Morse’s body pressed tightly to his own, Morse reached down to cover DeBryn’s hand on his cock while his other hand clawed at the pillow under his head.

‘Like that,’ he ordered, shaking, and DeBryn grit his teeth and tried to repeat the movement he had just made, the flex and roll of his hips that tore that noise from Morse’s throat.

‘Yes,’ Morse gasped, and DeBryn groaned harshly as Morse’s body shuddered tighter around his cock. ‘Yes, Max, there... like that...’

DeBryn obeyed as best he could, trying to concentrate on Morse’s movements, on what he found pleasurable, even as he tried not to concentrate on them for fear of embarrassing himself and coming before Morse had finished.

But this time seemed to be it, and DeBryn sweated and panted and kept the steady rhythm as best he could while Morse thrust into their joined hands and moaned, his fist white-knuckled on the pillow. At the last minute, as Morse’s back arched and he sucked in a heaving breath, DeBryn shoved his hand clumsily under Morse’s neck to reach for the hand that was twisted into the pillow, letting Morse slide his long fingers through DeBryn’s and grab at him while Morse shuddered through his orgasm.

DeBryn stayed in him, smearing blind, clumsy kisses along Morse’s nape, letting Morse push his cock through their joined fist before grinding back against DeBryn, chasing his pleasure until, with a shaky sigh, his hand went lax and DeBryn’s next thrust into him drew a flinch rather than a groan of pleasure.

Gritting his teeth, DeBryn eased out of him. He was sweating, shaking with his need to finish, but as he stripped off the condom and began stroking himself, rubbing his thumb firmly over the tip of his arousal, Morse half-twisted to look at him.

‘Come here,’ Morse ordered, face flushed but determined. He reached for DeBryn’s wet hand, sliding it forward between his thighs and DeBryn blinked at him, stupid with lust, until comprehension dawned.

Hands shaking, DeBryn guided himself between Morse’s thighs as Morse pressed his knees tightly together, then took his hand away to wrap an arm around Morse’s waist, groaning. It wasn’t the same as being inside him but it was close: the tight slide around his cock, the blazing heat of Morse’s body against his sweat-slick chest and stomach, the fumbling clasp of Morse’s hand squeezing in silent encouragement. DeBryn panted against Morse’s nape as he thrust raggedly, chasing the edge of orgasm, the tip of his cock almost unbearably sensitive as it rubbed against hot, slick skin, before coming in a heady rush that left him weak and shaking in its aftermath.

For a long moment afterwards DeBryn simply rested his head against Morse’s shoulder and panted for breath. Knowing the mechanics of it were one thing, but he had been woefully unprepared for how it would feel to do that with a man he was in love with, and as soon as he could decently manage DeBryn propped himself up on an elbow and kissed Morse’s freckled shoulder.

It was a gentle thing, but enough to make Morse turn his head and smile at DeBryn. A soft, intimate smile, and DeBryn’s heart faltered in its slowing rhythm.

‘Alright?’ DeBryn asked quietly, before his foolish heart could prompt him to say anything considerably less guarded.

‘Fine.’ Morse’s voice was deeper than usual, and DeBryn rubbed his cheek against Morse’s shoulder, considering how best to phrase his next question.

It wasn’t simply the medical aspect, although there was that too. But it was an act more intimate than usual; just at that moment DeBryn felt almost absurdly tender towards him. But as he thought, Morse shifted in his arms, turning to face him and tangling their feet together.

‘You’ve made a right mess of me, though.’ Morse’s tone was reproving but something soft lurked in his expression, and DeBryn smiled. He reached out, tracing his thumb lightly along Morse’s jaw.

‘If I hadn’t then we wouldn’t have been doing it properly,’ DeBryn murmured, his heart giddy when this made Morse smile.

‘But truly,’ DeBryn pressed gently, stroking Morse’s chest and lingering over his waist. ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

‘Yes.’ Morse’s smile had softened into something that – DeBryn’s treacherous heart pointed out – looked strangely close to fondness.

DeBryn swallowed, aching with tenderness for him. ‘Nevertheless, you should–’

Morse kissed him, a hand on DeBryn’s chin to hold him steady, and DeBryn cupped his hand over Morse’s nape and accepted his kiss readily. With words he might show too much of his heart but this was different, and DeBryn kissed Morse gently, worshipfully, with all the love he didn’t dare voice.

It seemed to go on for a long time, until DeBryn brought up his other hand to cup Morse’s face between them and stroke his thumbs over Morse’s cheekbones. When Morse drew back, instead of the sleepy-eyed satiation DeBryn was accustomed to seeing on him after sex, he looked... sharper. Intrigued, even, an expression DeBryn had seen often enough at crime scenes but not in his bed, and DeBryn suppressed an uncomfortable squirm under Morse’s narrow-eyed regard and returned his gaze as best he could.

‘Hmm.’ Morse looked away first, reaching to grab a pillow and stuff it under his head as he settled himself, and DeBryn was oddly relieved to be spared further scrutiny.

Morse caught hold of DeBryn’s hand, sliding their fingers together idly. DeBryn stared down at their clasped hands – Morse’s narrow fingers laced so easily through his own – and the words rose to his lips. _I love you. You mean the world to me._

‘Max...’

Biting his tongue, DeBryn looked over at Morse. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you still want to go to that cabin?’

Oh. That had appealed, had it?

‘Yes,’ DeBryn said, trying not to sound over-eager, although the concept of Morse and a double bed and all the time and privacy in the world sounded tremblingly close to paradise. ‘I’d like that very much.’

Morse sighed wistfully. ‘When can we go?’

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one feeling the constraints of their positions in Oxford after all, and DeBryn looked at Morse with new eyes. He rubbed his thumb gently, consolingly, over the backs of Morse’s fingers.

‘I would love to say we could go whenever you please. However–’ DeBryn lifted Morse’s hand to press a repentant kiss to his knuckles, ‘–I can’t request leave at this short notice for anything less than a family emergency.’

He hesitated. Would it be too presumptuous to suggest it? To assume they would still be doing... whatever this was? But then Morse had asked, after all. And he looked so thoroughly content, lying next to DeBryn, that DeBryn worked up his courage and ventured: ‘We might go next spring, perhaps?’

The smile Morse gave DeBryn sent giddy delight fluttering against his ribs. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Well then.’ DeBryn looked down, smiling to himself, his chest feeling too small to contain this rare surge of perfect happiness. ‘I’ll check the calendar and let you know.’

‘Yes.’ Morse’s voice was slow, on the verge of sleep, and DeBryn watched him until his eyes closed before sliding down the bed to rest his face against Morse’s chest and closing his own eyes.

Hunger was beginning to gnaw at his stomach, but he could afford to lie here for a while yet, with Morse’s arm settled warm and secure around his waist; such moments came rarely, and were all the more precious for it. He shifted, resettling his cheek against Morse’s chest and drawing his fingertips through the scruff of hair, and Morse murmured, sighing, and tightened his arm around DeBryn. DeBryn’s heart shuddered in his chest, newly aching with love for the fellow, and he pressed his lips to Morse’s chest, feeling the strong thump of his heart under his ribs.

‘“They were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self,”’ DeBryn breathed, his secret still safe, reassured by the slumbering rise and fall of Morse’s chest.

It was rare that life showered so many blessings on him at once but lying here, beside his love, making plans for five months’ time as though they were a settled couple, DeBryn had every reason in the world to be happy.

Which was why it was so thoroughly irrational that, beneath it all, he had a distinct sense of unease. Or why his brain, in the last few moments before sleep overtook him, insisted on returning to the frown on Strange’s face – half-puzzlement, half struggling for a memory – as he turned away from DeBryn’s hallway.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set around the events of Neverland

Doctors learned to read bodies. To look at temperature and skin tone, metabolism and organ function, to put all the pieces together and find the story they were trying to tell, stories their owners couldn’t – or sometimes wouldn’t – put words to.

For all that DeBryn worked with the dead and not the living, he still had the skill. In fact he flattered himself he had cultivated it to a higher degree than his colleagues: after all, the bodies of the dead were the record of their last hours, and if they crossed his path it was because something had gone badly wrong, and they were more than usually in need of being read and understood.

So when his instincts told him Morse was restless, he didn’t immediately believe them but nor did he automatically dismiss it as idle fancy. Instead he began to watch Morse, to watch him like a professional rather than a lover, and found nothing to discourage such a notion. Morse wasn’t off his feed – not more than usual, at any rate – and he still put away the same amount of Scotch. There was nothing wrong with his brain: he completed the Oxford Mail’s crossword as swiftly as ever. But he had acquired the new habit of falling into a brown study immediately afterwards, rather than picking up a book.

Yet if asked he would rebuff DeBryn’s concern; almost irritably, as though annoyed with DeBryn for noticing, and DeBryn learned to leave him be. He at least did what he could for Morse’s body: pushing meals at him, buying him ale rather than spirits if they happened to meet for a drink, and ensuring – on those evenings where Morse stayed over – they retired to bed early.

The last was the only one to which Morse didn’t object, not that DeBryn didn’t know why. Early nights invariably meant sex, and he had learned by now that Morse had a far dirtier mind than anyone would guess who looked at him and saw only the high-minded intellectual with his books and opera. He liked to use his mouth, to slide DeBryn’s cock over his tongue and between his lips while he twisted two wet fingers up into him and DeBryn clutched at the sheets, hands shaking with want. He liked DeBryn’s mouth on him and, after their successful attempt at it, DeBryn found he occasionally liked DeBryn inside him. Morse would never ask for it, at least not directly. Instead he would veer off towards the bathroom and then slide into bed, ten minutes after DeBryn, warm and smelling of soap and his own particular scent, and DeBryn would cup his arse and listen to Morse catch his breath.

Doing this with a series of different men was in no way preparation for doing it repeatedly with the same man, and DeBryn set himself willingly to the task of discovering what Morse liked. What speed and angle would get him off quickly in a frantic rush, or keep him shuddering on the edge for as long as they could both bear. DeBryn grew adept at reading Morse’s silent cues, knowing from the arch of his spine or his lip between his teeth whether he wanted it faster, or slower, or harder; he grew unashamedly addicted to the sight and sound and feel of Morse reaching his finish with DeBryn’s cock inside him, and to the moment Morse would sigh and blink open his eyes, and murmur, ‘Max...’ reaching for his cock to finish DeBryn with a hand, or guiding DeBryn between his thighs.

At night Morse would reach for him, curling against DeBryn like an animal burrowing against the nearest source of warmth. Often DeBryn would wake in the morning half-pinned under six feet of lean muscle and heavy bones; other nights he would blink sleepily awake in the small hours, wondering what had woken him until he heard Morse muttering to himself. Fast asleep, sprawled on his front, and murmuring fretfully until DeBryn coaxed him onto his side and drew him close with an arm around his shoulders, stroking his hair and the skull above the overactive brain, resting his palm over the occipital lobe and wishing he could absorb thoughts through skin, rather than relying on guesswork and evasions.

It was moments like this he was acutely aware of his lack of experience at this sort of thing. Perhaps a different fellow, one who had already navigated the traps and pitfalls of two people trying to twine their lives together, would know what to do. The right question to ask, or the appropriate gesture that would tip the balance and win him entry to Morse’s confidences. But DeBryn could only watch him silently, hating his own uselessness; all he was sure of was that, now of all times, it was more important than ever not to push him.

\----------

With two bodies in the morgue in almost as many days it was no surprise that the lines on Morse’s face seemed deeper than usual, his shoulders hunched and the furrow between his brows almost engraved into his skin.

It was, however, a surprise to hear a latchkey in his front door that night after he had locked up and gone up to bed. DeBryn looked up and rested a finger in his book, keeping his place as feet stumbled up the stairs and Morse pushed open the bedroom door.

‘Max.’

DeBryn looked him up and down. He looked utterly done in: his suit was rumpled, with dark smudges under his eyes and his face pale with tiredness. ‘Thomas.’

Even the gentle nickname only raised a half-smile. Morse nodded towards the empty half of the bed, the side that was becoming his, with its copy of _Goodbye to Berlin_ on the nightstand. ‘Can I?’

‘Of course you can.’ DeBryn flipped back the covers. ‘No need to stand on ceremony.’

With no more words Morse stripped down to vest and shorts, disappearing briefly to the bathroom before crawling between the sheets. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated, and DeBryn retreated behind his book and frowned to himself. Perhaps this was just Morse’s natural state when deep in the throes of a case. DeBryn would hardly know: when chasing down something of this magnitude Morse usually retreated to his own digs, surrounding himself with case notes and opera and – DeBryn suspected – an inadvisable amount of Scotch until it was all over and he would emerge. Tired and underfed, but fit once more for human company.

Now Morse stretched out on his side away from DeBryn, wedging one arm beneath his pillow; DeBryn stared fixedly at his book but the third time his gaze strayed to the dusting of freckles along broad shoulders, the feathering of tawny hair at a pale nape, he gave it up as a bad job.

After he set his book aside and turned out the light, DeBryn ventured to rest a hand lightly on Morse’s tense spine. ‘Are you alright?’

It was easier to ask such things in the comforting darkness. DeBryn spoke low, quiet enough not to wake Morse if he were truly asleep, quiet enough that Morse could pretend not to hear if he wished.

And it seemed he did so wish. Whatever was eating him, he wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Not to DeBryn, and perhaps not even to himself, for Morse only turned in a quiet rustle of bedclothes, rested his face against DeBryn’s collar bone, and wound his arm around DeBryn’s waist, one hand splayed against his back.

It was hardly the most comfortable way to sleep, and predictably DeBryn passed a restless night. Morse looked as though he had hardly fared any better; when the alarm sounded the next morning he lay for a long time, knuckling at his eyes and yawning.

When he did eventually move, it was only to the edge of the bed: he swung his legs out, rested his feet on the rug, and then seemed to lose momentum.

DeBryn lay there, one hand jammed beneath the pillow under his head, the other still warm from resting against Morse’s back all night. Morse’s shoulders slumped, oddly defeated, and some instinct prompted DeBryn to sit up and lean over to plant a kiss on Morse’s nape, just at the spot where rumpled hair gave way to sleep-warmed skin.

Morse stirred a little, turning his head. ‘Max.’

‘Mm?’ Just here Morse smelled so much of himself, and DeBryn tucked his mouth and nose against the curve of a shoulder and subtly inhaled, desire waking low in his belly.

‘Would you...’ Morse’s thigh flexed as he prodded the bedside rug with a toe. ‘What would you think if I wasn’t in the police any more?’

This was unexpected, and DeBryn blinked. But then, all things considered, perhaps not.

‘What would you do instead?’ DeBryn asked quietly. He dared to rest a hand over Morse’s where it was planted on the edge of the bed, gratified beyond words when Morse turned his wrist to tangle his fingers with DeBryn’s, like a man seeking an anchor.

‘I don’t know.’ Morse’s shoulder rose in a half-shrug, and his warm fingers tightened around DeBryn’s. ‘Anything.’

A tinge of fear wormed its way through DeBryn’s chest. ‘Has someone said something about... Do they know that...’ Words failed him, strangled by the nameless fear of discovery.

Thankfully Morse’s clever brain understood.

‘ _No_.’ Morse gave their clasped hands an impatient little shake. ‘I keep telling you, coppers aren’t nearly as observant as you think.’

Still safe, then, and DeBryn sagged against Morse’s back and rested his cheek against Morse’s shoulder penitently. ‘I know. I just–’

‘–worry, yes, I know.’ Morse was silent a moment, before adding: ‘But would you. You know. Still want to... do this?’

It took a moment to puzzle out the question. But when he did...

‘Yes,’ he said at once. How could there be any doubt? ‘You could...’

DeBryn bit his lip.

_I’m mad for you, I adore you; you could sweep the streets and I wouldn’t care, as long as you came home to me to leave your crosswords and books all over the place, and feed the wretched cat table scraps when you think I can’t see._

‘Yes, I would,’ he managed. ‘Of course I would.’ Some of the tension leached from Morse’s back, and DeBryn ventured: ‘Is this... something that’s likely to happen?’

No reply save another shrug, and this time Morse tugged his hand free of DeBryn’s and stood. Slowly DeBryn lay back down, on Morse’s still-warm pillow, watching the long muscles play in Morse’s back as he stretched and made for the bathroom. He curled his fist against his heart, hand tingling with the ghost pressure of Morse’s fingers between his. There was an unfamiliar sensation in his chest, a curious lightness not felt in so long that it took a while to identify it, but when he did a smile tugged at his mouth.

‘“The thing with feathers, that perches in the soul,”’ he murmured to himself, as the shower began to patter faintly. ‘“And sings the tune without the words, and never stops - at all.”’

Hope. It felt like hope.

\----------

DeBryn may be more skilled at reading corpses than social interactions among the living, but even he couldn’t mistake the tension in the air in the alderman’s offices, thick and heavy as the plush carpet underfoot. And he didn’t think it was entirely due to the victim’s status: Bright and Deare were irritable, Morse pawing through papers and stalking around the room like that bloody cat he was so fond of, and even Jakes – usually so polished and impassive – looked alarmingly off-colour.

All things considered, it was enough to make DeBryn frown in puzzlement when he heard Morse letting himself in that evening. Twice in two days was unusual indeed; it might have meant the resolution of the case, but that notion vanished at the first sight of the tension in Morse’s shoulders, the way he stalked into the living room.

‘Max.’

‘Morse.’ His attention ostensibly on the issue of _British Medical Journal_ open in his lap, DeBryn watched Morse with a veiled gaze as Morse prowled over to the side table and poured a generous measure of Scotch into a tumbler, knocking it back before reaching for the bottle to top up his glass to a level that made DeBryn’s eyebrows raise.

He said nothing, merely turned a page and asked, ‘How goes the investigation?’

‘You know I can’t tell you,’ Morse said, his words clipped, as he collapsed gracelessly into the other armchair.

DeBryn sighed inwardly and looked at him over the tops of his spectacles, allowing a touch of asperity to creep into his tone. ‘Indeed not. Excuse me for asking.’

Morse rarely apologised directly, and by this point in their acquaintance it would be foolish to expect it. But there should be something, damn it: a seeming non sequitur, a comment on the evening’s choice of record, an idle remark that nonetheless, in look and tone, indicated Morse’s abashed regret for his own jagged edges.

Instead Morse stared grimly at the fire for a few moments, fingers tapping erratically against his glass, before pushing himself back out of the armchair and going to rifle through DeBryn’s records. He pulled one out, cradling it in his palms with rather more gentleness than he had just addressed DeBryn.

‘Can I?’ Morse nodded towards the record player, currently pouring forth gentle strains of Debussy, ideal for quiet study.

He ought to refuse. A fellow didn’t deserve free rein with the record player when he barged in, helped himself to expensive Scotch as though it were lemonade, and then snapped like a bad-tempered dog. But Morse was on edge, wound tight as a coiled spring ready to snap, and DeBryn waved a silent hand, granting permission.

It was Mozart’s 25th symphony, all _sturm und drang_ , and DeBryn inwardly resigned himself to catching up with the _British Medical Journal_ another evening. He kept it folded open, however, in lieu of scrutinising Morse, who had moved to the other bookcase to paw idly though DeBryn’s poetry collection.

A volume of Charles Causley was the favoured choice this evening, and Morse returned to his chair but DeBryn watched him stare fixedly at the same page for a good five minutes by the clock.

Morse looked up, and DeBryn failed to look away in time. Morse frowned. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ DeBryn kept his voice even. Questions would do no good here, but just perhaps, under the twin influences of Mozart and Scotch, if he didn’t press but simply made space, let the silence open calm and inviting between them...

‘There’s something going on at the station,’ Morse said at last, closing the book and gripping it tightly as he stared into the fire. ‘Something bad. Rotten. I can feel it.’

 _By the pricking of your thumbs?_ DeBryn carefully didn’t say. Morse didn’t look in the humour for levity.

‘And this case...’ Morse closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, sadness flickering across his features. ‘It’s...’

‘What about it?’ DeBryn asked softly, when Morse’s words faltered.

‘I can’t say,’ Morse said, snappish anew. ‘I can’t tell you. And believe me,’ his mouth twisted mirthlessly, ‘you don’t want to know.’

DeBryn thinned his lips. As though he were asking out of prurient curiosity.

Morse got to his feet, pacing restlessly over to the bookcase. Whatever he had come here searching for this evening, it seemed he wasn’t finding it in Scotch, or Mozart, or Causley; he tugged another book out from its companions with a brusqueness that the old volume didn’t deserve and DeBryn winced. A tart comment about age was on the tip of his tongue when Morse turned.

‘Can we go to bed?’

Automatically, DeBryn glanced at the clock. It wasn’t as late as all that, but an early night would do him no harm and Morse did look rather done in. ‘If you like.’

Morse’s lips twitched. ‘No. I mean...’ He crossed the room to DeBryn, taking the journal out of his hands and laying it aside, and looked down at him with an expression that made DeBryn abruptly thankful the curtains were closed. ‘Not for sleeping.’ He licked his lip, looking DeBryn up and down with such overt intent that DeBryn very nearly blushed. ‘Can we?’

‘But,’ DeBryn’s foolish tongue spoke the words uppermost in his mind, ‘on a case, usually you don’t.’

Surprise smoothed some of the lines from Morse’s face. ‘I do sometimes.’

‘Not on this sort of case.’ DeBryn shook his head, his voice immediate and certain. 

Morse sighed, rubbing a hand though his hair and looking older than his years. It brought DeBryn to his feet, reaching out to rest his hands on Morse’s narrow waist, all warm flesh under thin cotton, as Morse ran a hand up DeBryn’s arm consideringly.

‘I’m not usually looking for a distraction.’

This close his breath carried the scent of Scotch, and the subsequent kiss left DeBryn’s mouth tingling faintly.

‘Alright then.’ DeBryn rested a hand on Morse’s face. ‘Thomas.’ His palm found stubble that spoke of long days and not enough time for a careful shave, and he rubbed a thumb gently against a sharp cheekbone. Some of the weariness left Morse’s face, fine lines smoothing out as Morse closed his eyes and turned his cheek into DeBryn’s palm. ‘If that’s what you want.’

In bed Morse certainly seemed a man in need of distraction. He was oddly unfocussed, with his kisses falling erratically and hands almost grabbing; in truth it was more like tussling than sex until DeBryn, equal parts aroused and exasperated, grabbed Morse’s hands, rolled him onto his back, and stretched out on top of him, his weight pinning Morse to the bed and his hands pressing Morse’s back into the pillows.

It drew a soft, shocked noise from Morse and DeBryn had an awful moment of thinking he had gone too far before Morse went limp beneath him, his muscles loosening and knees lifting to frame DeBryn’s hips, his face flushing and his cock jerking against DeBryn’s stomach.

It seemed he didn’t object to a bit of manhandling, then; the discovery left DeBryn curiously protective of him, and he lowered his head to kiss at the tendon in Morse’s neck, nuzzling warm skin and murmuring, ‘What can I do for you, then.’

In response Morse lifted his knees a little higher, tucking them against DeBryn’s ribs and lifting his hips, and DeBryn swallowed hard as his cock nudged down and back to slide along the cleft of Morse’s arse.

‘Alright.’ DeBryn kissed Morse’s mouth, nibbling lightly at his lower lip and began to withdraw. ‘Turn over, then, and let’s–’

‘No.’ Morse’s legs clasped firmly around DeBryn’s waist, and he tugged his hands free to stroke the small of DeBryn’s back. ‘Like this.’

As though DeBryn could refuse him. Not when Morse looked at him with such blatant hunger in his eyes; the position made it rather awkward to do the necessary preparation, but Morse let him go long enough for DeBryn to kneel between his thighs, sliding his fingers into Morse until the sight of what he was doing meant he had to reach down and give himself a few slick pulls, fiercely aroused and aching.

When he reached for the final stage of preparations, however, Morse reached down and took the condom packet away from him before he could open it.

‘Try it without,’ he said, his voice rough from DeBryn’s attentions.

DeBryn swallowed hard, bracing himself up on the pillows by Morse’s head even as his heart pounded. ‘I don’t...’ he broke off, kissing Morse apologetically, his face heating with embarrassment. ‘I don’t think I can.’

A warm hand closed around his erection, slicking him down to the root and along to the tip and DeBryn twisted his face away, heat flushing over his chest and up into his cheeks as Morse’s touch coaxed him harder.

‘ _Morse_ ,’ DeBryn gasped, spreading his knees to press forward into Morse’s hands. ‘Really, I should–’

‘Just try it,’ Morse suggested, and with no more than that he was guiding DeBryn down, curling his hips up, and a moan broke through DeBryn’s gritted teeth as he sank inside.

Was it the position that made everything so intense? Tangled together like this everything felt tighter than usual, and when DeBryn – biting hard at his lower lip – tried a couple of gentle thrusts he saw he wasn’t the only one who found it so. Or was it the fact of being so intimately joined? He had never done it like this before, never without protection and never with someone he had been so desperately in love with, and as Morse pulled his head down for kisses DeBryn could have drowned under the wave of affection.

Like this Morse couldn’t set the pace as he usually did, and DeBryn kissed his face, his soft mouth, the sweat-damp skin of his throat as he moved. He soon found that cupping his hips up at the peak of each thrust sent Morse shuddering with pleasure, and that he needed both hands to brace himself, and Morse had to take care of himself.

‘Do it,’ DeBryn gritted out, needing to turn his face away when the sight of Morse’s long fingers wrapped around his flushed cock made his breath quicken, his release gathering tight and immediate in his groin. ‘Go on, take what you need–’

The sensation of Morse’s knuckles rubbing rhythmically against his lower belly almost undid him completely, along with the faint tremors in the strong thighs pressed tightly to DeBryn’s waist. Morse’s throat worked as he tilted his head back, eyes closing, and DeBryn faltered as Morse’s hand gripped his back, fingers curling to claw stinging lines along his skin as Morse moaned sharply, his hand frantic on himself for the last few breathless seconds before warm slickness spread between their stomachs.

It was almost enough to bring on his own climax, but DeBryn gulped deep, shuddering breaths, biting the inside of his cheek and doing his utmost to concentrate on Morse, until Morse gave an enormous sigh and opened his eyes.

‘I...’ DeBryn gasped, already easing out of Morse as gently as he could manage. ‘Sorry, I need to–’

He sat back on his heels and, wiping a hand through the mess on Morse’ stomach, reached down to pull at himself, toes curling with the need to finish. When Morse reached down and tugged his hand off his cock, DeBryn groaned through his teeth. ‘Morse, really, I–’

‘Like this,’ Morse was muttering, as though shy, winding his legs around DeBryn to pull him forwards, pressing his heels against the backs of DeBryn’s thighs and curling his hand around DeBryn to guide him back inside. ‘Don’t stop.’

DeBryn’s eyes slid closed as he sank back inside, groaning. This was new: usually Morse was shivering and sensitive after his finish, and DeBryn had grown used to stripping the condom off to finish in his hand, or between his thighs.

‘You’ll tell me,’ DeBryn managed, even as his hips surged forwards on instinct, ‘whether it’s too much.’

Morse kissed him in reply, and DeBryn moaned and thrust raggedly into him. He was so close: his back slick with sweat, his shoulder muscles burning from bracing himself up, but his balls had drawn high and tight at the base of his cock, each thrust carrying a hint of ecstasy at its end. He was likely being far too rough, especially towards the end, but DeBryn gritted his teeth and gave himself over to his body’s needs, fisting his hands in the sheets and biting greedy kisses along Morse’s jaw, his throat, until his pleasure grew and peaked and he came, pushing deep into Morse’s body and swearing through his teeth.

This was different too: spending himself into Morse’s body, his cock held tight in slick heat, Morse’s warm hands cupping his face and holding him steady when DeBryn would have turned his face away. After the initial wave of pleasure the slide of his cock grew abruptly far slicker and easier; the knowledge of why made him shudder, drew another pulse from him when he thought he was finished, until eventually he gasped for breath.

His arms trembled, and Morse barely had to tug lightly at him before DeBryn was collapsing forward onto Morse’s chest. Doubtless half-crushing the chap but Morse didn’t seem to mind; instead his hands stroked DeBryn’s spine, soothing, and DeBryn allowed himself a moment to lie there and simply breathe.

Until Morse shifted his legs slightly in their splay, and DeBryn forced himself to rouse.

‘Here.’ Clumsily, his limbs rubbery, DeBryn shifted over to the other side of the bed and drew Morse close, urging him to roll onto his side, wrapping an arm around him and tilting his head to press gentle kisses to Morse’s beautifully flushed mouth.

‘Are you alright?’ The words spilled out of DeBryn without conscious decision. He had been rather rough at the end there. ‘Are you?’

‘I’m fine.’ Morse sounded half-asleep already, limp and post-coital with no sign of the tension that had driven him to DeBryn’s door. He stretched lazily, jamming a hand under his pillow, and DeBryn nosed along his hairline, unable to stop kissing him.

How ridiculous that, after that, he should be the one in need of reassurance, not Morse, and the anxious flutter in his chest quietened when Morse’s hand fastened over his hip, thumb stroking lightly.

‘Come here,’ DeBryn said quietly, helplessly charmed when Morse consented to roll closer and forego his pillow to rest his head on DeBryn’s shoulder, sliding a leg heavily across DeBryn’s.

DeBryn smoothed his hair back from his forehead, letting his fingers run along the edge of one sharp cheekbone before tracing back to tuck a wayward curl behind his ear. Morse scuffled a little against him, his body gradually settling as his mind slowly quietened, and DeBryn resolutely stopped touching him and wedged his hand beneath his pillow. Best let the fellow sleep, if he was tired. ‘Goodnight then, Thomas.’

Morse’s quiet murmur sounded pleased. Even amused, and in response there was the soft press of a kiss on the side of DeBryn’s neck, the slow creep of Morse’s hand brushing his, settling their fingers together.

Sleep stealing over him, DeBryn closed his eyes and let his mind drift, replaying the conversation of that morning. The idea of Morse as something other than a policeman was a strange one. Strange, but certainly not unwelcome; depending on what Morse himself wanted, it could open up all sorts of opportunities to them that weren’t possible now.

His imagination took flight, buoyed up by love for the man sleeping so warm and peaceful next to him.

If Morse chose to return to his degree, and if he wanted, perhaps they might even manage to share digs. Ostensibly, of course, it would be DeBryn deciding to rent out his spare room to a student for a bit of extra money, as so many other Oxford residents did, and what could be more natural than to rent to someone he already knew? He would have to make sure to complain roundly about the arrangement to anyone who would listen, about Morse’s fondness for loud opera and his books lying everywhere. But in reality...

It was a pleasant fantasy to take into sleep, and DeBryn drifted off to dream of Morse as a Greats scholar once more, surrounded by dusty old tomes, and with his Greek and Latin texts nestling against DeBryn’s rather more modern books on the bookcase downstairs.

\----------

The dream carried DeBryn happily through the night, and he woke the next morning refreshed. Refreshed, and fondly amused at the fact of Morse sprawled across most of the bed, face against DeBryn’s chest and blankets tugged up around his ears as though to fight the call of the day. DeBryn reached over to turn off the alarm before it could sound and lay there, cupping a hand protectively over Morse’s nape, watching the blurred clock hands tick around.

Last night’s activity was all too evident this morning. DeBryn’s body was faintly sore, his muscles protesting lightly as he stretched, and the memories of his enthusiasm and Morse’s shameless encouragement brought warmth to his face. Morse would doubtless be in the same fix, and DeBryn bowed his head to press his mouth lightly to sleep-rumpled hair and inhale, not wanting to wake him but unable to bear a moment longer without touching him.

At that moment DeBryn would have given a small fortune for it to be the weekend. He could have persuaded Morse to linger in bed, soft and compliant. DeBryn would have fetched tea – and the Saturday crossword for Morse – for breakfast together in bed, neither of them with much conversation, but quietly enjoying each other’s company all the same. Morse’s bare shoulder would have been steady and strong against his as he cradled a teacup in one hand and clicked his pen with the other, crossword balanced on his drawn-up knees, and DeBryn could have leaned over to kiss his shoulder silently, brushing his lips worshipfully against a constellation of freckles.

It was a lovely daydream but, as DeBryn squinted at the clock face and was forced to acknowledge the time, he sighed and let it slip away. He shuffled, sliding down the bed and coaxing Morse to tip his face up until DeBryn could kiss his warm cheek.

The faint scratch of stubble prickled his lips, and DeBryn kissed him again, high on his cheekbone, and murmured, ‘Thomas.’

This brought no response, and DeBryn stroked Morse’s flushed cheek with his own blunt fingers. ‘You need to wake up, old chap.’

That was as much as he would permit himself. Stronger endearments were too much, even to a Morse who appeared fast asleep and not listening.

‘Mm.’ Morse stirred, turning his face towards DeBryn’s hand, and DeBryn cradled his cheek and kissed his forehead. ‘Time’s it?’

‘A quarter to seven,’ DeBryn told him, smiling at Morse’s arm sliding warm and clinging around his waist. ‘Morning strikes her spear upon the land.’ He kissed Morse’s temple. ‘And we must rise, and arm ourselves, and reprove the insolent daylight with a steady hand.’

This brought a sleepy smile to Morse’s face, a smile so unselfconsciously happy that DeBryn’s heart turned over, enchanted anew.

‘Be not discountenanced if the knowing know,’ Morse finished, his voice rough, ‘that we rose from rapture but an hour ago.’

DeBryn’s stomach contracted. He hadn’t thought of the poem’s end when he began it; what a singularly inept choice for two men who could neither of them afford the knowing to know.

But Morse was still smiling and loose-limbed, and he curled into DeBryn and nuzzled at his throat, and DeBryn rested his cheek briefly on top of Morse’s head before rubbing his back.

‘Come on then,’ DeBryn said. In reply Morse sighed into the crook of DeBryn’s shoulder, disgruntled, and DeBryn smiled, let Morse hear the amusement in his voice. ‘If you play your cards right, I might even make you fresh coffee.’

As though there was any doubt in the matter; DeBryn hoped Morse never discovered just how much he could persuade DeBryn to do, if he truly set himself to it, and in the kitchen – washed and dressed – he poked two pieces of bread under the grill and glanced at the kitchen clock as he listened to Morse’s footsteps overhead.

The cat was curled in its box in the corner, and DeBryn refilled its water bowl. It didn’t stir at this, nor at the saucer of food he set down, but when Morse walked into the kitchen it stood, stretched, and went to wind through his ankles.

‘Ungrateful wretch,’ DeBryn muttered, turning to the whistling kettle and pouring the steaming water over the ground coffee in the pot.

‘Hullo.’ Morse bent down to stroke it, rubbing the small head and DeBryn glanced over for a moment, his heart aching queerly at the soft domesticity of it all, before turning away to fit the cosy over the coffeepot.

Each time they did this there was a transition in Morse, a subtle but inexorable shift from the fellow DeBryn privately thought of as ‘Thomas’ – the devil-may-care chap who laughed at DeBryn’s rather poor jokes and was content to lie around bare-chested in DeBryn’s bed – back to DC Morse. The change in him pained DeBryn to see, even as he couldn’t argue with its necessity.

This chap skirting around DeBryn’s kitchen table was somewhere between the two: he rested a hand absently on DeBryn’s back as he stepped past him to pour a cup of coffee, yet when he sat at the table the familiar lines were already back between his brows, as though the relaxed, sensual creature of this morning were nothing more than a dream.

He was also moving just a little stiffly, and the memory sent warmth blooming up DeBryn’s throat and into his cheeks.

Morse looked up from the morning paper. DeBryn would swear his regard had been entirely silent, but there was nothing wrong with Morse’s policeman’s instincts. ‘What is it?’

‘You... er...’ Morse’s shirt collar was open; DeBryn’s mouth went dry with lust at the sight of collar bone, the memory of pressing his mouth hard to the rapid flutter of pulse as Morse flung his head back, uninhibited at the peak of his pleasure, while DeBryn tried desperately not to come. ‘You seem a little–’

‘I’m fine.’ Morse looked down at the paper, his tone reproving but a betraying wave of pink sweeping up his throat and into his face.

The tips of his ears were scarlet, the rest of him blotchily flushed, and DeBryn’s attention was caught by a patch on the side of Morse’s throat that looked more reddened than the rest. Dear God, surely DeBryn hadn’t been so clumsy, so distracted by his own selfish pleasure, as to leave a mark.

The next time Morse shifted uncomfortably in his chair DeBryn had the sense to pretend not to see, but he could do nothing about the messy surge of protectiveness in his chest.

‘Here.’ He dropped the toast on a plate and pushed it across the table to Morse, along with the butter dish. ‘Eat that.’

Morse grunted his thanks, and DeBryn worried at the side of his thumbnail before taking a breath.

‘Morse, is everything alright? I don’t mean your, er, physical wellbeing.’ DeBryn waved an awkward hand; Morse’s brows lowered but DeBryn continued. ‘I mean you seem. That is. Not quite yourself lately. Is something wrong?’

Morse shook his head, irritated, setting down his knife with a clatter against his plate. ‘More wrong than three murders and a missing child, you mean?’

Despite the opinion of several colleagues DeBryn did have a temper, one that went behind sarcasm and barbed wit, although it took a lot to provoke it. It stirred now; DeBryn drew a deep breath but, in lieu of snapping out the reply that rose to readily to his lips, he stepped away to fetch the jam from the larder and draw a deep breath.

‘Do you really think,’ he bit out, setting the jar on the table with a bit of a bang and shoving it roughly at Morse, ‘you need to lecture _me_ about all the misadventures that could befall a missing child?’

To his credit, Morse held DeBryn’s eyes for only a moment before dropping his gaze and looking away, abashed. ‘No, I don’t. I’m sorry.’ 

‘Apology accepted, I suppose.’ DeBryn sat at the table, and couldn’t resist adding sharply: ‘Although I warn you, Morse. One day those words won’t be enough.’

‘I know.’ Morse rested his elbow on the table, massaging the bridge of his nose. ‘I didn’t mean to snap... It’s just that there’s something... something I’m missing. The answer is there, I know it. I just can’t see it.’

DeBryn buttered his toast in silence, only partly appeased. If Morse was going to be a bear with a sore head then let him, DeBryn had had enough of offering care only to have it flung back in his face.

Under the table something brushed his ankle. DeBryn glanced down, expecting to see the cat come to beg for a dab of butter, and instead found Morse’s calf coming to rest against his. Morse’s hand crept over the table and settled over DeBryn’s, warm from cradling his teacup, as Morse said quietly, ‘And also... this isn’t common knowledge yet, but OCP and Thames Valley constabulary are merging.’

DeBryn looked at him, his hand turning automatically to fold Morse’s fingers into his own, his brain working as he chewed his toast. He swallowed. ‘So I imagine there will be some... I believe the preferred term is “streamlining”, is it not?’

A corner of Morse’s mouth twitched upwards in silent acknowledgement of DeBryn’s sarcasm.

‘Have they approached you to...’ But DeBryn’s words trailed off, discounting the idea before he completed it. That wouldn’t send Morse into such a mood; his feelings towards the force had only ever been lukewarm at best, he wouldn’t be so foul-tempered at being forced out of a profession he had been growing increasingly disillusioned with.

‘No,’ DeBryn said quietly, watching Morse’s face, knowing he was right even before he spoke. ‘It’s Inspector Thursday, isn’t it?’

A slight jerk of Morse’s chin, before Morse said, ‘He’s planning to take early retirement. And I don’t much fancy working for any of the other inspectors, and it got me thinking.’

He met DeBryn’s eyes. ‘What if I wasn’t in the police any more?’

DeBryn took a careful bite of toast, chewed, swallowed. ‘What would you do instead?’

Morse shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He picked up his teacup and stared into it, as though the answer floated in the liquid. ‘Teach, maybe?’

DeBryn carefully said nothing. Morse had the air of someone who wasn’t really asking advice.

‘Or... I don’t know.’ Morse raked his hand through his damp hair, rumpling it out of its combed order, and DeBryn picked up his teacup and concealed his fond smile. ‘Perhaps we could go abroad.’

Only the most supreme effort kept DeBryn from choking on his mouthful of tea, and when he had swallowed he stared at Morse.

‘Well.’ Morse shrugged again, a touch of defensiveness creeping into his tone, and his hand around DeBryn’s loosened and withdrew. ‘It’s not unheard of. People do move abroad. Couples.’

DeBryn looked down, taking another mouthful of tea in lieu of pointing out that Morse had attributed his surprise to the wrong part of that sentence. ‘We...’

Could it be that simple? All DeBryn’s hesitation, his uncertainty, effaced with a simple pronoun? Was it possible that, all along, he hadn’t been the only one considering a future for them?

‘Do you speak any languages?’ Morse asked, glancing over to DeBryn with a querying air before finishing his toast.

‘Fluent German, actually,’ DeBryn answered, too newly giddy with that ‘we’, tossed out so casually, as though it were a foregone conclusion, to note more than a distant satisfaction at Morse’s surprise. ‘Quite passable French. And a smattering of Italian.’

‘Well, there you are, then.’ Morse slanted a veiled look at him before picking up his tea and murmuring, ‘Lots of men moved to France in eighteen ninety-five, you know. Because of–’

‘Yes, I know.’

For a minute, DeBryn allowed himself to imagine it. Living in a country where it wasn’t illegal. Sharing a flat, or even a small house, and not having to worry about the comment it would cause.

It sounded blissful, achingly so, and before he could contemplate it too closely DeBryn forced himself to face the single rather large problem.

‘Morse...’ DeBryn cleared his throat. ‘I’m a Home Office pathologist. The Home Office’s jurisdiction, you won’t be surprised to hear, does not extend to continental Europe.’

‘Oh.’ Morse looked down at his plate. Something went out of him, as though DeBryn had reached out and stilled a faint, sweetly chiming bell; it tugged at DeBryn’s heart to see it, and he quickly wrapped his hand around Morse’s, folding Morse’s long fingers tightly into his own.

‘I’m not saying there may not be ways and means,’ DeBryn added quietly. Belatedly, a pang speared through his chest at the thought of abandoning his home in Oxford. The home that was entirely him, writ large, from the front door he had sanded down and re-painted himself, to the framed oil painting of a Highland autumn that hung over his bed. The garden, newly redone after so much sweat and labour, and put to bed for winter just the weekend before last.

But Morse had said ‘we’, as though they were a pair. How strange that one small word could turn a fellow’s priorities so completely upside-down.

‘There may be options I could look into,’ DeBryn offered. ‘The important thing is that I... well, I...’

The words faltered. Even here, even now, DeBryn couldn’t get them out, and he changed it to: ‘I want you to be happy. Whatever that requires.’

‘Right.’ Morse smiled down at their joined hands. He looked happier already, his shoulders loosening, and his hand shifted in DeBryn’s clasp to push his fingers through DeBryn’s. ‘I’ll put my papers in after all this, then.’

This time DeBryn didn’t even try to hold back his smile, his delight spilling over. ‘When the hurly-burly’s done.’

Morse squeezed his hand, looking years younger already. ‘Yes.’

\----------

With such a start to the day it was impossible not to face the rest of it in cheerfully relaxed mood. DeBryn made excellent headway on the paperwork in his In tray, and even managed to start collating the monthly report figures. He drafted his leave request for spring – thankful he was alone with no-one to see his dizzy elation at the thought of a whole week alone with Morse, with fishing and books and the countryside, nothing to do and no-one to bother them.

What would Morse be doing by the spring? Would he have made a decision? If he needed to take a few months before starting his next job, or his studies, then DeBryn could certainly support him financially if he needed it. His pathologist’s salary was intended for a man with a wife and family, and was ample for a bachelor with modest tastes. But Morse may well not take kindly to the offer, proud as he was. It would have to be done carefully.

The hours slipped by until, glancing up from his work, he registered with vague surprise that it was getting on for seven. He would complete this report, at least, before finishing up for the day, and he uncapped his pen but had scarcely finished a paragraph before the main door to the mortuary banged.

DeBryn lifted in head, frowning in faint irritation at the imminent interruption.

‘Doctor DeBryn?’

What was Morse doing in the morgue at this hour? There were no reports outstanding for his team in the CID, and DeBryn sat back in his chair and capped his pen, his frown disappearing as he called: ‘In here.’

Morse appeared in the doorway a moment later, and DeBryn revised his assumption that Morse was here on a work-related visit, and wondered instead whether he might be here to call upon DeBryn’s medical expertise. He was agitated in the extreme; face flushed and eyes almost wild, and as he took a few rapid steps into DeBryn’s office, DeBryn considered briefly whether he was high on something.

‘I–’ Morse glanced over his shoulder, starting to shut the door behind himself.

DeBryn guessed his thoughts. ‘We’re alone.’

‘Right. Good.’

Morse licked his lips and scratched his nape, rumpling his already untidy hair, and DeBryn tilted his head to the sofa. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

But Morse shook his head frantically. ‘No, no, I can’t stay. I just came to drop off these.’

He crossed to DeBryn’s desk, reaching into his overcoat, and thrust something at DeBryn. Taking it, DeBryn found it was a set of keys. His own house keys, to be precise.

‘What...’

‘I picked up both sets this morning,’ Morse said, his words almost tumbling over each other. ‘Accident. Just wanted to drop a set off with you, for when you go home.’

DeBryn folded his hand around the keys, thoroughly confused. ‘I don’t think you did.’ He glanced at his own overcoat on the coat stand, recalling the familiar small weight in the left-hand pocket that morning, where he always put them. ‘Look–’

He stood, meaning to check, but Morse caught his arm as he moved. ‘Are we alone?’

DeBryn stared at him. ‘You know we are. I just said we–’

Morse perched on the edge of the desk, snagging a fold of DeBryn’s pullover and tugging him closer, close enough for Morse to clasp his hands behind DeBryn’s back. DeBryn cupped Morse’s head in his hands, winding his fingers through thick hair.

‘I’ve typed up my resignation letter,’ Morse said, apropos of nothing, as his hands pushed under DeBryn’s jumper, and his arms tightened around DeBryn. ‘Ready to hand them in when this is done.’

‘Ah.’ Perhaps the finality of it explained some of this fey mood that had him half-jumping out of his skin, and DeBryn smiled faintly, smoothed a thumb across his temple. ‘And I’ve submitted my leave request for April. I was going to suggest you waited until it was approved before submitting your own but I suppose, under the circumstances...’

‘Quite.’ Perched like this Morse was a few inches shorter than him. A novel experience, and Morse suddenly surged upwards to press a swift, hard kiss to DeBryn’s mouth. ‘I’m...’ He swallowed, paused long enough for a tendril of worry to touch DeBryn’s stomach. ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’

‘As am I.’ DeBryn cradled Morse’s jaw in his hands, holding him steady for DeBryn to peer into his eyes, checking his pupil dilation. He slid his fingers back along Morse’s jaw and subtly took his pulse. Racing.

‘Morse, are you sure you’re quite well?’ DeBryn asked again, when Morse submitted to all this with a look that said he knew exactly what DeBryn was doing but, unusually, made no outward protest.

Morse gave a smile, but so unlike his usual that it wasn’t the reassuring gesture he likely intended. ‘Quite.’

Perhaps it had just been a day more frantic than usual. ‘Would you like a lift home?’

‘No.’ At this Morse loosened his arms and stood, until DeBryn was forced to drop his hands and step away. ‘I can’t. There’s still a loose end or two to tie up.’

‘A lift onwards, then, to wherever you’re going.’ Strangely, DeBryn found himself oddly reluctant to let Morse out of his sight.

Morse shook his head. ‘I’ve got the car.’

‘Morse...’ DeBryn began, before finding he had no words for the nameless foreboding gnawing at him.

Morse interpreted his look correctly, but rather than shrugging it off he merely smiled. ‘It’s fine. Nothing to worry about. I’ll have Inspector Thursday with me.’

It was some small comfort, and DeBryn told himself firmly that Thursday, at least, seemed to have a vested interest in Morse’s well-being. On some occasions, more so than Morse himself.

‘I’ll see you later, then.’ DeBryn picked up a pencil from his desk, fidgeting with it in lieu of reaching for Morse again. ‘And don’t...don’t be too late back. I want to talk to you.’ He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. His heart pounded. ‘To tell you something.’

‘Alright then.’ Morse didn’t smile, not exactly, but there was a certain softening around the corners of his mouth, a warmth in his eyes. ‘And now I really must... I shouldn’t have come, I’m already late, but I wanted to see you.’

DeBryn frowned, unease stirring in his chest. ‘I thought you came to drop off the keys.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Morse looked down, his expression shuttered, and took a couple of steps towards the door. ‘I have to go. Promises to keep.’

‘And miles to go before you sleep,’ DeBryn returned softly.

Morse paused in the act of opening the door. ‘Something like that.’

Abruptly he turned, crossing the room to DeBryn and cupping his face. He pressed a brief, hard kiss to DeBryn’s mouth – firm enough to leave DeBryn’s lips tingling – and before DeBryn could even speak, much less respond, Morse turned on his heel and was gone.

The whole exchange could have taken barely five minutes, and certainly no longer than ten, and DeBryn was left breathless, his head spinning. He sank into his office chair and stared dazedly at the half-written report in front of him. What in God’s name had that been about?

A thought stirred, and DeBryn rose, crossed his office, and rummaged in his overcoat pocket until he pulled out his house keys, tucked in exactly the pocket he had known they would be. He dropped them on his desk, next to the set Morse had just given him, and stared at them both.

He wasn’t so inexperienced that he didn’t know what it signified when one party returned their set of keys. And yet Morse hadn’t acted like a man ending a relationship: the ghost-pressure of his kisses lingered on DeBryn’s mouth, and Morse had looked so relieved at the prospect of handing in his papers. A simple mistake, that was all. Morse was an intelligent fellow but he was just as capable of them as anyone else.

And so DeBryn was unable to say why the sight of both sets sitting side by side made him almost frantic with worry.

\----------

Both sets were tucked into his pocket when, an hour later, he was summoned to attend to the body of the late Chief Constable Standish. As he jotted his initial impressions in his notebook, he had to pause, reach into his pocket, and grip them tightly in his fist for a moment, letting the pain of the sharp edges digging into his palm distract him from his rising dread as he recognised the scarf abandoned on the desk next to the corpse. A scarf he knew all too well indeed.

\--End--


End file.
